


Between Beta & Theta

by evelle90



Series: endless knight [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, BAMF Harleen Quinzel, Based on Neil Gaiman's The Sandman, Batman - Freeform, Bruce Wayne - Freeform, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Crazy Harleen Quinzel, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Gotham City - Freeform, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Medical, Medical Jargon, Nerdiness, Neurology & Neuroscience, Pseudoscience, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Science, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 63,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelle90/pseuds/evelle90
Summary: There, between the beta and theta waves - between waking and sleeping - there is dreaming.You are a second year neurology resident at Gotham General. While researching sleep, you find yourself in realm referred to as The Dreaming, causing you to question everything you thought you knew about reality, sleep, and the human brain.
Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Reader
Series: endless knight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081139
Comments: 173
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as sleep goes, you consider yourself obsessed. You are its biggest fan. If there were a Sleep Fan Club, you’d be president. You cannot seem to get enough of it. 
> 
> While this isn’t an uncommon complaint of a medical student, your love affair with sleep goes further back than your days as a neurology resident. 

Though pleasant, the melody that encircles you and crescendos until you have been effectively pulled from your slumber is one that you associate with pain. 

Perhaps describing waking up as “pain” is a _tad_ melodramatic. Nonetheless, you groan as you blindly grasp for your phone on your nightstand. While you rollover onto your back, you press the side button to silence the alarm and squint into the screen which is lit up with the “Root of the Day.”

> Morhpe, -e, -o (Latin). Sleep 

_Morphine, Morpheus_

The Root of the Day alarm system you set up in your first year of medical school. You’d found that it helped you to remember the structures and functions of many medical terms if you understood where they’d originated and what they meant. For example: the Greek root _asci_ means “a bag, bladder,” which helped you to remember that ascites was the pathological swelling of the abdomen from accumulation of fluid. 

Six years later, you still wake up to the Root of the Day and if you didn’t feel so fatigued you’d find today’s word ironic - being awoken by sleep. 

As far as sleep goes, you consider yourself obsessed. You are it’s biggest fan. If there were a Sleep Fan Club, you’d be president. You cannot seem to get enough of it. 

While this isn’t an uncommon complaint of a medical student, your love affair with sleep goes further back than your days as a neurology resident. 

In high school, your friends would tease you and call you an “old lady” when you were at parties, yawning by ten pm. Even your mother fondly recalls, “You were the easiest baby to put down for a nap or to bed at night. As soon as you caught sight of your crib you’d reach for it and giggle. I always wondered what sort of amazing dreams you were having that would make you so excited to get to sleep.” 

Your enthusiasm and devotion to slumber is probably why you chose your career path, your research, and even your dog. 

Though it seems counterintuitive for the chronically drowsy to go into medical school, you’d made it though (developing a ferocious coffee addiction on the way) and gotten yourself a neurology residency at Gotham General. And once you were done with your residency you were slated to do your fellowship in a uber-specialized branch of neurology called “sleep medicine.” 

The research you were currently involved in had to do with dream control in trauma patients. And when you’d gone to the shelter to pick out your BFF, Fezzik, you’d picked him because the manager had said, “This one’s _always_ sleeping,” as if it were a defect. 

Speaking of the canine, as you make your way to the kitchen to pour yourself an enormous thermos of cold-brew, you trip over the snoozing giant sprawled out on the floor. Yelping as you fall and catch yourself on your hands and knees over him, earns you a lazy head raise and enormous yawn - his long pink tongue curling out of his mouth as he does so. 

Though you want to be annoyed by him, you can’t. Especially not when he nuzzles his wet nose against your arm and whines affectionately. 

“Morning, Fezzik,” you scratch him behind his big floppy ears and his thick tail whacks against the hardwood kitchen floor rhythmically. Fezzik is a dusky gray great dane, and yes, you’ve named after the character from _The Princess Bride._

Picking yourself back up and dusting off your hospital issued light blue scrubs, you nudge him gently with your foot as you get into the fridge, “You gotta get up, boy. Mama’s got to go to work and you’re going to Miss Lizzie’s.” at your mention of your eccentric elderly neighbor, Fezzik jumps right up. 

Though you’re a smidge jealous, you can’t blame him. If you got to hang out with a lady who’s favorite pastime was feeding you snacks, rubbing your belly while you watched the Game Show Network, and knitting you cozy scarves and booties, you’d be stoked to hang out with her too. 

_If only we all had a Miss Lizzie._

After you drop off Fezzik, you head out into the streets of Gotham. Though the sun has yet to show it’s face, the foot traffic on the sidewalks is already heavy. In the past two years that you’ve resided in this city, you’ve gotten used to maneuvering yourself through the crowds and avoiding trouble, being sure you keep your head down as you cross the intersection that branches into the crime-ridden neighborhood known as The Bowery until you jog down the stairs to the subway. 

Though you keep your headphones in, you're not listening to anything. This keeps you aware, which you need to be in any major city like Gotham, but also discourages anyone from talking to you. 

Unfortunately, it hasn’t worked today. 

When the train begins it’s prolonged _screeeeeech_ indicative it’s approach to the University Station, you stand and move toward the doors. A malodorous elderly woman in a dingy, bespattered yellow raincoat and a teal bucket hat covering her stringy white locks approaches you. 

She clears her throat and says, “‘ey, girlie! I got somefin for yeh.” 

You train your eyes forward, and hold onto the bar, pretending you didn’t hear her, feeling a twinge of guilt as you do so. 

As a physician, you feel that you have an extra obligation to face the parts of the world that the rest of the population ignores. You feel that you should always hold yourself to the gold standard of the humane, just, and moral. But frankly it gets exhausting and you’re not on the clock yet. 

When you exit the train you do so at a brisk pace, taking the stairs two at a time, and taking long strides to cross the bustling underground plaza of the University Station. But you are stopped by an icy skeletal hand wrapping around your wrist. 

The old woman has managed to keep up with you and after a impulsive but brief look of disgust when you glance down at her hand on yours, you slip on your well-practiced professional mask. 

You make a show of popping out one of your earphones, in order to shake off her hand, but keep a kind smile on your face. “Can I help you?” 

She’s huffing and puffing, but grins a toothless grin up at you and repeats, “I ‘ave somefin for yeh.”

“Do you?” you keep your voice friendly, but clipped, “I’m running a bit late. Can it wait?” 

This isn’t true. You have twenty minutes until your shift starts, and the steps that lead straight up into the lobby of Gotham General are no more than thirty yards from where you stand. However, you’re hoping you can politely divert her before resorting to rudely walking away. 

Shaking her head, she grabs a hold of your wrist again with one hand while rummaging in her large front pockets with the other. Passersby shoot you sympathetic glances as you look helplessly out into the bustling plaza. 

“Ah! ‘Ere it is!” she exclaims and pulls out a long ribbon of crumpled, yellowed paper. She opens your hand, puts it in, closes your fingers over it and pats it. Taking note of her dirty fingernails, you tell yourself you’ll need to spend a little extra time washing your hands as soon as you get in. 

“‘S that which yeh seek.” she smiles proudly up at you and you try to tug away, but her thin fingers are deceptively strong, “A token o’ the King of All Nights’ Dreamin’,” 

“Oh…,” You look down at the ripped ends of the paper sticking out of your fist, “Well… _thank you_.” 

As soon as she loosens her grip, you reclaim your hand, shove the paper in the front pocket of your scrubs, and walk brusquely away.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
The encounter at the station has you starting your shift a little frazzled and it takes you until you get to the second case on your desk to get into the groove of things. 

Since residents are cheaper labor than the attending physicians, you and the six other neurology residents with whom you share the office are all worked to death. But it’s a rite of passage into the world of being a medical doctor. Thus, you take a swig of your vat of iced coffee, which is stronger than Superman himself, and dive in. There’s no time to dwell on the old woman on the subway so you push her out of your mind. 

It isn’t until six hours into your day that you finally finish rounding on your patients, typing up histories, consulting with your attending, and get to take your lunch. Even on your lunch, you don’t really get a break. This is when you catch up on your emails.

An email thread from your research colleagues draws your attention. The research team you’re part of consists of only two other people: an attending psychiatrist at Arkham, Dr. Ryan Campbell, MD, and a neuroscience professor at Gotham University, Dr. Sadie Jones, PhD. 

Tonight the three of you had planned to do a preliminary sleep trial. You’d finally gotten the go-ahead to use the dream control serum developed by Sadie and Ryan in a standardized research subject. The plan was to use the preliminary data from the trial tonight to submit for further funding. 

Unfortunately, according to the email thread, the standardized patient had strep throat and wouldn’t be able to participate. This meant that the application deadlines for the grant applications would probably not be met, which, in turn, meant you’d have to wait _another_ six months to apply again. 

You feel deflated. So deflated, in fact, that you put down the cookie you are eating. This is serious if you are rejecting chocolate chips. Twisting your bottom lip between your index finger and thumb you wrack your brain, trying to think up a solution. 

The door to the office opens and Kevin, one of the first year residents comes in. “Ah! Just the little lady I was looking for!” 

You can barely contain your eye roll. 

Kevin is the quintessential All-American physician: male, white, cis, tall, blond hair, blue eyed, perfect teeth, private-schooled, entitled, douche-canoe. As far as the pecking order went, as the second year resident, he should be at your beck-and-call. Instead, he patronizingly referred to you as the “little lady.” 

“Will you trade me your on-call tomorrow for my on-call next Saturday night? I just got a hot date.” 

Whenever any of the residents need a shift trade, you are the go-to. You are the token workaholic with no social life of the group and since you enjoy keeping yourself busy (when you aren’t sleeping that is) you typically don’t mind. 

However, Kevin getting a “hot date” while working rubs you the wrong way (and is definitely questionable ethics on his part) and you are going to say no on principle. But when you open your mouth to do so, an idea pops into your head and you freeze. 

If you have your on-call shift covered tomorrow, it would free up your evening and you can be the standardized research subject tonight. So you snap your jaw shut and nod. 

“Atta girl!” he smiles and rubs the top of your head - like you are a dog and not a human woman. The urge you have to bite his fingers is potent - but since you are already replying to Sadie and Ryan and he’s already moved on, you resist.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
You don’t have time to run home before you need to be at the lab. Luckily you keep a toothbrush and toothpaste in your locker at the hospital. 

“Where’s Fezzik?” Sadie asks as she sticks the electrodes on your forearms. 

You strap the breathing monitor below your breasts. Though you’ve set up plenty of polysomnograms, you’ve never been on this end of the sleep study. It’s somewhat surreal. 

“Living his best life and probably getting type two canine diabetes with my neighbor.” 

Sadie laughs and you hold out your index finger for her to tape the O2 monitor on. When you first met the neuroscientist you thought she was _way_ too bubbly for you. You were sure that doing research with her would make you crazy. With a head full of strawberry blond cherubic curls framing her round face, huge green eyes, a smattering a freckles across her nose, and a _fucking dimple_ to boot - she is the picture of the wholesome girl next door. 

Given time, you realized she had the same twisted sense of humor as you and you warmed up to her. She is always surprising you and is the closest thing to a (human) friend you have in Gotham. 

Once you’re all hooked up to the monitors and everything is ready to go, Sadie stands up and claps her hands. 

“Ready?” 

You nod. 

“Thanks again for doing this.” She fills the syringe but hesitates at the foot of the bed, “I guess you’re more qualified than I am.” 

You take the syringe from her, pull down a side of your pants, and without hesitation shoot the serum into your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye you can see her wince, “This is why I chose academics.” You smirk and hand over the needle for her to dispose of. 

Before she leaves she does a final sweep of you, making sure everything is in place, “Are you sure you’re comfortable? I mean you’re still in your work clothes.” 

“Oh yeah,” you wave her away, “Lucky for me, scrubs are basically pajamas.” 

“Sleep tight, Doc.” She winks at you before turning off the light and closing the door. 

_I always do._

You put in the noise cancelling headphones and roll onto your stomach to get comfortable. Something in the front pocket of your scrubs makes a crinkling sound and you reach in to pull out a piece of wadded up paper. 

It’s the paper the woman in the subway gave you this morning. You’d completely forgotten about her. 

Since you’re all hooked up to machines you’re stuck in bed. So you shove the paper under your pillow unceremoniously. Then, because as previously mentioned, you are besotted with sleep - you begin to doze off immediately. 

The last thought you remember thinking is: _Here I go, into the arms of Morpheus, as they say. Hey! That’s funny. Morphe - was The Root of the Day…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I've been thinking of writing this fic for several months now and I was going to wait until the first draft was done before posting anything. _BUT_ I wanted to get out the first two chapters to see if there's any interest and before they release the casting for the Netflix series - so we can all imagine Dream as we want. 
> 
> (For me is def an Adam Driver and young Robert Smith love child.) 
> 
> xx
> 
> Evie


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a beat of silence in which you squeeze your eyes closed and beg yourself to wake up. _Get me out of this nightmare._

The sky stretches out in front of you like a pool of motor oil - liquid black with a prism of purples, pinks, and greens - set as the backdrop to the most vibrant gallery of stars you’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s breathtaking. 

Then the stars begin to rapidly rearrange themselves into a staircase in front of you. So, you do what anyone in your situation would: you walk up the goddamn staircase of stars. _Duh!_

Where does it lead? 

_Does it matter?_

How does it work?

_Who fucking cares?_

Things don’t stay so magical though. At some point, you can’t remember exactly when, the staircase of stars turns into a staircase of jagged rocks. Every single step becomes painful as the shards puncture the skin on the soles of your bare feet. 

Why do you keep walking? 

You couldn’t say, but somehow you know you can’t stop. The rock staircase feels like it goes on for days. Your feet become slick with blood, but you never slip. Each tread is fresh torture, but you never pause. 

At long last, when your chest is tight with unsung sobs, the staircase ends and a blazing desert stretches out in front of you. Your feet are no longer bleeding, and though the drops from your sweat and tears sizzle on the golden surface, the sand is… _cool_ under your feet. 

The desert is classic, stereotypical, Saharan-esque, and though you can see nothing but the endless rolling hills of sand you move forward. 

The sun beats down on you, but you don’t grow hot or thirsty. You just keep moving forward with the same logic you’d utilized before - somehow, you can’t explain how, you just know: you can’t stop. 

At some point, when you scramble to the top of one of the dunes, you see an oasis in the distance. It’s just a couple of palms and shrubs swaying in the breeze, but it’s a little piece of heaven in the middle of this wasteland. 

As you approach the oasis, it begins to grow. 

Not only does it begin to grow, it also starts to... _make noise?_

You can’t hear what the sound is until you get to the edge of the jungle - for, by now, the oasis has grown into the size of a full blown jungle. It’s the palm tress, they are rustling at you to “ _turn around_ ” telling you to, “ _go away._ ” 

Do you listen to the ominous trees? 

_Hell no._

Dream you is tenacious as a midwest soccer mom at a Walmart on Black Friday, and you barrel through the jungle. Even though every single viper you pass hisses at you to, “ _go back_ ,” and the neon feathered birds of paradise scream, “ _turn around_ ,” in your face - you keep going. 

As abruptly as it started, the jungle ends and you find yourself in what can only be described as a corridor of clouds between the jungle and a misty mountain forest on the other side. 

For once on this journey, you decide to exercise an ounce of caution. In lieu of brazenly walking through the clouds, you first dip your toe into the milky, misty tide. 

Immediately, as if you’re in a video game, a path of glowing turquoise stepping stones present themselves in the river of cotton-candy clouds. You hop out onto the first one and as soon as you do, the jungle screams from behind you. It begs you to “ _come back_!” 

_Flippant jungle!_

You roll your eyes, glad to be leaving it behind. 

When you get to the last stone before the forest, a strong breeze billows past, whipping your hair around your face and almost knocking you completely off of the stone. You throw your arms out to your sides to balance and then, with all your might, take a huge leap forward rolling onto the meadow grass of the next obstacle. 

Perhaps ‘obstacle’ isn’t the right word to use here. An obstacle would imply an end goal and you have no idea _what_ your end goal is. You don’t even know how you got to… _whatever_ this place is. All you know is you should keep moving forward. And you do. 

You walk through the peaceful meadow, listening to the buzzing of bees busy pollinating the flowers. You follow a stream into the mountains. You wave to two brothers you see bickering in a cabin and they gawk at you. 

It’s not weird. Not at all. 

You do finger guns to a grizzly bear as you pass, and wink at a majestic unicorn grazing on hot pink wildflowers. Then, right after you take a long drink from a chocolate milk spring, you come to a halt in front of the most ominous looking gate you’ve ever laid eyes on. 

It towers over you, in all its majesty. White marble and black iron. Its architecture is a mix between hair-raising gothic and whimsical art nouveau. There are soft curves and spirals but also lofty, sneering gargoyles. It's both enticing and warning, soft and sharp, dream and nightmare. 

A crow flies down from the top, expanding as it does, until it is large enough to look head on when it lands at your feet. Gulping, you eye it’s enormous beak which is large enough to snap your head off without trying. 

“Why do you stray here, dreamer?” the crow caws angrily. 

Your jaw drops and your eyes bulge. 

_A **talking** crow?_

“Speak!” the crow demands. 

“I…,” you look around at your surroundings as if for the first time realizing how strange everything is, “I _don’t know_.” you whisper the last two words. 

“Well then. Be gone!” The crow’s shrill voice makes you jump, “Dreamers are forbidden here.” 

“May… if I may… can I ask?” you fumble, your tongue becoming clumsy in your shock, “Why are dreamers forbidden here?” 

The crow tuts impatiently, “Beyond this gate lies the personal gardens and palace of the Lord of Dreams, ruler of this realm. Dreamers are not permitted inside.” 

“The…,” your eyes snap to the crow’s, somehow still beady even in their advance size, “I’m sorry but did you just say, the... _Lord of Dreams?_ ” 

“Yes! Dream of the Endless, Morpheus, the Sandman, the King of All Night's Dreaming… call him what you will. This is _his_ realm and you mortals are required to stay within your permitted zone.” 

A memory, from your life outside of this world, comes marching out into the forefront of your mind (a truly impressive feat since you can barely remember _who_ you are). It’s a memory of a woman in a dirty yellow raincoat and a teal hat. 

_“‘S that which yeh seek.” she smiles proudly up at you and you try to tug away, but her thin fingers are deceptively strong, “A token o’ the King of All Nights’ Dreamin’,”_

The crow has lost his tolerance for you and is starting to snap at the air to either side of you to spook you away. 

“Wait!” you yell at him and bury your hands into your scrubs, “ _Shit_ … I put it under the pillow.” You pat your pants with desperation and then you hear it - a crinkle in your back pocket. Reaching back you pull out a skinny ribbon of yellowed paper, though it’s no longer creased or frayed like the one the woman gave you on the subway. 

“A token!” you yell at the same time the crow screeches, “ _A **token**?!_” in apparent disbelief. 

All at once the demeanor of the crow completely changes. He bows at your feet and begins to shrink back to his normal size, “Forgive me, lady, for I thought you were a mere dreamer who’d wandered astray.” 

“Oh…,” you’re not quite sure how to react to being referred to so formally, “Erm… it’s okay. All is… forgiven?” 

The crow peers up at you, “So kind.” His voice is genuine. It breaks your heart a bit and makes you wonder what kind of people he’s used to encountering who bear these mysterious _tokens_. 

_Poor bird._

“Follow me, kind lady. I will take you to my master.” 

All at once the crow shoots up into the sky and the gates open to reveal a winding path to a huge palace in the distance. 

“This shit is straight out of _The Wizard of Oz_...,” you marvel under your breath. If the Emerald City was less… green and shiny and more of a stunning and fucked up cathedral of doom. There is even a field of vibrant red poppies blowing in the breeze like a sea of oxidized blood. 

_Poppies are used to make morphine._

_Morphine is an opioid._

_Opioids activate serotonin release, which can induce sleep._

_Morphe, -e, -o (Latin, Myan). Sleep._

“You said you’re taking me to see your master? Is that the Dream Guy? I mean, Captain Dream? Or… King Sleep?” You shout stupidly up to the crow as you approach the door. 

“I’m taking you to have your conference with _Dream of the Endless, Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams_ , as per your token requires.” 

“Oh. A conference?” You wrinkle your nose and picture a conference room with a projector and a guy in a business suit giving powerpoint. 

Luckily there’s nothing as mundane as a conference room behind the impossibly tall arched double doors. Rather, when you grasp the iron ring and haul the heavy door open, you walk into a medieval throne room complete with gothic vaulted ceilings between marble roman columns. 

The tapestries lining the wall are… _moving?_

Not as in emotionally moving, as in _literally, **physically**_ moving. 

You want to stop and get a better look at them because the snippets you see as you pass are _intriguing as hell._ ( _Oh my god, is that an **orgy**? Holy shit! Is that a **dentist** getting impaled by a bull?_) But you see that there’s a portentous shadowy figure sitting on the throne at the other end of the room and you don’t think you should keep a king waiting. 

Much like his kingdom, the monarch is a study in contrasts. His skin is pale, inhumanly so, while his almond eyes and mop of unruly hair atop his head are as black as the feathers of the crow. His nose is long and sharp and his cheekbones could cut glass, but his mouth is wide and plush. 

He nods as you approach and even though he’s sitting in a bored power-slouch, resting his chin in his hand, you can tell that he’s tall. A fact that is only enhanced by the sweeping midnight robe he wears. On his lap rests a freaky helmet that looks as if someone took the head off of a giant mutated fly with an elephantine proboscis and decided to make it into a gas mask. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. 

The crow lands on the back of the throne. The king sits a bit straighter and says, “Thank you, Matthew.” 

His voice. 

_Holy shit… his voice. _

You’ve never heard anything like it. You don’t know how to describe it. (But you’ll try anyway.) 

It’s deep and masculine, yes. But more than that, the waves travel to you and crash against you more like a liquid would rather than the simple vibrating particles of a sound wave. It’s a voice you want to listen to as you drift to sleep, a voice that has the ability to shift between soothing and terrifying with little effort. A voice that has you pressing your palm to your belly to tame the fluttering. 

The man now fixes his gaze upon you and rises. Without consciously deciding to do so, you take a step back as he glides down the steps from his throne to where you stand. 

“Tell me, _doctor_ , why do you seek a conference with me?” 

Though you should be shocked that he knows you, you’re not. The whole of the experience is so absurd, you wonder if anything could surprise you anymore. 

The answer, you soon find out, is: yes. You _can_ still be surprised. 

Of all things, it’s _you_ who surprises you. Rather the pure cringey awkwardness of your responses to him are... unsettling and surprising. 

First, once he’s in front of you, you don’t know whether to salute or bow or curtsey, so you start with a salute then bend over into a deep bow. The whole maneuver ends up with you looking as if you’re dramatically searching for something on the floor. 

_Then_ , when you stand up again, you can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes - so you keep yours fixated on his laryngeal prominence as you ask, “So... _you’re_ the King of Dreams, eh?” 

“Some call me that, but I have many names. You may call me Morpheus, or simply, Dream - whichever your preference.” 

You don’t know _why_ you say what you do next. But it’s most likely because you spend most of your free time as of late with only a ridiculously huge dog as company and your social skills are… lacking. 

“Well, Morpheus,” you take a sharp inhale when you finally let yourself peer up into his eyes. They aren’t at all like normal eyes. There is no pupil, no iris, no sclera, it’s just a night sky - black and shining with stars. 

_This man has stars in his eyes!_

If only it’d been enough to stop you. 

Alas, you continue, “If you _are_ the Lord of Dreams, or whatever, you should know better than to have _poppies_ outside of your palace. Because while opium can induce sleep, it’s been shown to decrease REM sleep and - as I’m sure you know - REM is when the majority of dreaming happens.” 

There’s a beat of silence in which you squeeze your eyes closed and beg yourself to wake up. _Get me out of this nightmare._

Then you hear the noise and you peek one of your eyes open to see the handsome monarch, hands on his abdomen, long fingers spread across on his diaphragm. His head is thrown back, exposing his lengthy neck as he laughs and you begin to relax, laughing nervously along with him. 

You become hypnotized by the way the muscles in his neck - which look like they’ve been carved from marble - move. 

When he recovers enough, he asks you breathlessly, “Is that what you came here to tell me, doctor? That I have the wrong flowers in my garden?” 

Although you shake your head, you answer, “If you’re interested in something more… _on brand_ , you might want to consider snowdrops, daffodils, or red spider lilies. They have an alkaloid that has been used with varying success for increased time in REM sleep and lucid dreaming experiments.” 

“I am grateful to you for your input.” 

When he gazes back down at you, with half of his mouth tilted up in a smirk, your stomach goes haywire and only gets worse when he grabs the back of your arm, right above the elbow, and orders you to, “Walk with me.” 

When he turns you, the back of the throne room from where you entered is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a dark arctic forest, the snow sparkling with the vibrant green light of the serpentine borealis in the sky above. Even though it isn’t cold, you shiver as your bare feet sink into the ice with a crunch. 

“We both know why you are here.” The smoothness of Dream’s voice doesn’t puncture the blanketed stillness of the winter wonderland. Rather, it enhances the peacefulness of the moment. 

“We do?” you glance up at him. Though he keeps his eyes forward, he nods. 

“We do. However, on your way to The Dreaming, you’ve forgotten.” You furrow your brow and try to remember, “Do not fret, _eratos_ , it is a common enough occurrence. It will be my pleasure to remind you.” Once again you shiver, but this time it has less to do with a reflexive response and more to do with the sound of Morpheus saying ‘ _pleasure_.’ 

“You and your colleagues are researching external dream control.” 

“ _Oooooh yeah_!” you bop the top of your forehead with the heel of your hand. 

How could you have forgotten? Your research. You’d gone to sleep in the sleep lab and were presumably being observed at this very moment by Sadie or Ryan. You stop walking and look around at the forest. 

_This wasn’t the dream she was supposed to put in - was it?_

“You are correct. This is not the dream that your colleagues were hoping to project. Nevertheless, it _is_ the dream you are _supposed_ to be having.” Morpheus answers your unasked question. 

You frown down at the snow. The hem of his long robes lay at your feet and you notice it is sparkling like the edge of the milky way. 

If you’re not dreaming what the serum was supposed to trigger, that means you probably won’t have any new preliminary or exciting data to report on your grant applications. 

_Shit._

He grabs your chin between the crook of his index finger and his thumb, gently tilting your head back to look up at him. His face is serious. Not angry, but solemn. And when he speaks, it’s with an unquestionable authority. 

“It is not for mortals to control The Dreaming, _eratos_.” 

Chronically stubborn and never known to be one who responds well to unexplained orders, you cross your arms over your chest and narrow your eyes at him, “Why not? Death used to be something we ‘mortals’ weren’t supposed to control and yet with increased technology, we constantly defy it.” 

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, doctor, you do _not_ defy Death. She comes for each and every one of you eventually.” 

You ignore him and continue on to make your point, “I took an oath, and when I took that oath I promised to try my best to ease the suffering of my patients. Don’t you see?” Swept up in the self-righteousness of your plea, you reach out and grab his hands, “If we can _control_ our dreams… well it wouldn’t be hyperbolic of me to say it could be _life-saving_ for patients with PTSD.” 

The corners of Dream’s’ eyes tip down and he shakes his head, “I commend your ardent spirit and I can assure you that your honor and compassion would make Hippocrates proud,” he brushes a tear that has escaped the corner of your eye off of your cheek, “The Dreaming is my domain and must remain so.” 

A familiar tune has started to play amongst the trees of the forest. Though it’s a pleasant tune - it’s one that you associate with the pain of waking. 

_No. Not yet._

The Lord of Dream’s eyes sparkle knowingly (and literally, because _stars_ remember?), “Your word today - it is a good one. It was nice to have this conference with you, doctor. If you will see me, I cannot say, but I will most certainly be seeing you.” 

You startle awake on a sharp inhale and reach over to the bedside table to grab your phone - being careful not to disrupt the electrodes on your arms. After you silence it, you do just as you do every morning and look at the Word Root of the Day.

> Alucin, -a (Latin). wander in mind, dream

_Hallucinate._ _Hallucinogen._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re not antisocial per se.

There are several parts of a polysomnograph. Measurements of physiologic conditions are taken continuously (ie: O2 saturation, heart rate, temperature). In addition, movements of eyes and skeletal muscle is monitored. The section you are interested in, and the section that is your job to interpret, is the EEG. 

The electroencephalogram, or EEG, simply measures the brainwaves of an individual and can be used to track a sleep cycle. 

There are five distinct brainwaves on any polysomnograph:

  * Beta waves are fast, low amplitude waves that dominate when you are awake.
  * Alpha waves are similar to beta, but they’re slightly slower and less frequent. Alpha waves are what is present in stage one sleep. The name of this stage is deceiving because you aren’t technically asleep yet. This is the stage when you are _falling_ to sleep.
  * Theta waves are lower in amplitude, higher in frequency, but interspersed with distinctive sections of larger waves called K-complexes and sleep spindles. These waves are seen frequently in stage two sleep.
  * Delta waves are tall and slow and they indicate _deep_ sleep in stages three and four. 
  * The fifth wave type doesn’t have a name. They are seen during REM sleep, when dreaming occurs. The waves aren’t quite beta, nor are they theta. They exist there between the beta and theta waves - between waking and sleeping - there is dreaming.



The sleep cycle occurs multiple times a night, every ninety minutes or so. Since you were asleep for six hours in the sleep lab, this means you _should_ have had approximately four REM cycles. This isn’t the case. 

Your brainwaves on the EEG are… _abnormal_ to say the least. The first thing you notice as you examine your waves in the laboratory with Ryan is that instead of occurring in cycles, they appear to have been grouped into one long cycle. 

Stranger still, during the last fourth of your REM cycle the waves appear to change. It’s subtle but you’ve looked at enough EEGs to notice it. The waves shift, increasing in frequency, shortening in stature. Even though you were still technically asleep, your brain was exhibiting beta waves for the last quarter of your REM cycle. The brainwaves were behaving as if you were completely alert. 

“And you didn’t have the dream?” Ryan double checks as you puzzle over your EEG. 

“No…,” The serum designed by Ryan and Sadie was one that was supposed to lock in sequence onto receptors of the thalamus to convey a specific image. It was supposed to be of a mouse, eating a piece of cheese. “No mouse. No cheese. There was a bear, a unicorn, a desert, a raven, and a… man… of sorts,” you hesitate here. You’d never before had a dream that felt so _real_ and you wonder if this is the cause of the beta waves at the end of your REM cycle. 

You’re sure there’s a scientific explanation for this and like most scientific explanations, it’s probably simpler than you think. You just need time to think it over, maybe do some digging in the university’s database. 

Ryan itches his beard and adjusts his glasses. He’s the very picture of an academic, complete with elbow patches on his sweater. You have a hard time picturing him sitting across from the criminals at Arkham, asking them, “And how do you feel about that?” in his soft spoken way. 

“Would you be willing to come in some time in the next few weeks for us to establish your baseline? We haven’t seen these results on an EEG before and I’m wondering if the cycle grouping is from the serum.” 

With a yawn and stretch, you nod in response.

After you set up a time two weeks out to get your baseline polysomnograph done, you get up to leave. You’re itching to go home, get out of these day two scrubs, take a long shower, and fall down an irregular sleep cycle rabbit-hole over a cup of coffee. 

But before you can get out the door, Ryan clears his throat. “Mindy has been asking me to set my little brother with someone. He’s about your age. What do you say?” Mindy is Ryan’s wife and though you’ve only met her once, you got the impression she’s the stereotypical busybody suburban housewife. 

“Oh…,” You occupy your hands by throwing your hair up into a bun, trying to decide how to decline as politely as possible. 

Lucky for you, as a psychiatrist, Ryan is good at reading between the lines and he smiles sheepishly at you, “No need. Sorry I brought it up. Just so you know, I don’t care either way, it’s just she’s been on my case about it. You know how it is.” 

You nod sympathetically and wave his apology away, because you _do_ know how it is. God forbid anyone be single in this world. Your mom is constantly trying to set you up with someone - even from halfway across the country, she’s somehow got a never-ending list of contacts here in Gotham that she’s constantly trying to get you to see. 

“Oh! One last thing,” you turn to face him again, one foot out the door. Ryan’s holding something out to you in his palm, “Did you want this? It was under the pillow.” 

_No. Throw it away. Why would I want it?_

Even though that’s what you think, you shrug and say, “Yeah. Why not.” Reclaiming the ‘ _token_ ’ from your colleague and shoving it back into your pocket. 

In this way you’re lucky its Ryan here instead of Sadie. Sadie would bug you about it, ask you questions ( _What is it? Why do you want it?_ ) that you’re not sure you know the answer to. Ryan, who is usually all about professional privacy, doesn’t seem to care.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
You’re not antisocial per se. 

You certainly tend to hoover around the introverted side of the social spectrum, but some of that can be attributed to an occupational hazard. The career you’ve been pursuing for the entirety of your adult life doesn’t allow for excessive socialization.

Before your residency brought you to Gotham, you had a group of friends from medical school and even (to your mom’s delight) a long-term boyfriend. The inevitable severance and distancing of those ties that comes with graduation and residency matching was so acutely painful for you. And this is why, since moving to Gotham, you’ve shied away from putting in energy establishing new friendships just to relive the whole painful experience when you were done with this phase of your education. 

And, ultimately, this is why you were watching _The Exorcist_ , your first of October tradition, with only Fezzik to keep you company. As the movie draws to a close, you pat the behemoth of a canine, who was sprawled over ninety-five percent of the couch, on the flank and announce, “You see Fez? Jaundice, portosystemic shunting of systemic arteries visible on abdomen, poor wound healing, confusion, aggression, bilious vomiting… this bitch doesn’t have a demon. She has hepatitis.” 

Fezzik makes a grumbling sound in his throat that you imagine means: _Biiiitch, you woke me up for that?_ and lays back down. 

“You don’t get it.” You mumble under your breath as you turn off the TV. 

A wave of loneliness comes crashing over you along with the sudden darkness of the room. It’s the second year in a row you’ve watched the movie by yourself. Last year it’d felt empowering, refreshing. There were no passive aggressive jabs from your ex-boyfriend Alex about your “stupid tradition” keeping him from whatever he had planned. 

But this year it's lost its novelty and you miss your medical school friends who enjoyed the tradition. You miss having someone, _anyone_ , to laugh with, to riff with, to cuddle, to touch. 

Perhaps it’s this bout of loneliness that makes you do something… strange? Irrational? Crazy? 

After you get ready for bed, you fish your scrub top out from the top of the laundry bin and pull the crumpled up paper out from the front pocket. Then you sprint to your bed, rapidly shoving it under your pillow as you climb in. You do this as if you’re trying to be sneaky, but the only person around is you. Maybe you're trying to hide it from the logical side of your mind. 

Either way as you fall asleep, you tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. And yet you don’t take it out from under the pillow.  
.  
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This time you don’t have to waste time traveling to the gates. 

As soon as you arrive at the staircase of stars you shake your head and say, “No. I’m not doing this. Take me to the gates.” And by the magic of dreams (which is similar to the magic of television), the sky falls away and is replaced by the gate. 

Without any preamble, Matthew, the raven, opens the gate. When you get to the cathedral Morpheus is gazing at a tapestry. 

“Doctor,” he greets you without turning to look in your direction, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company on this fine evening?”

Because you don’t know what else to say, you shrug and offer, “Have you ever seen the _The Exorcist_?” 

This has him turning to look at you with one eyebrow raised. 

Suddenly, you feel the need to look away. You forgot how strange it is to stare into eyes that look like night. 

“It’s a horror movie.” You explain, watching your feet shuffle nervously on the cool marble floor. 

“I am aware.” You detect a hint of amusement on the edges of his overly-formal dialect, “No. I have not watched the film. However, as it makes a frequent appearance in the nightmares of mortals, I may as well have.” 

There's a moment of silence and in it you ask yourself what the hell you’re doing here again. 

Though the serum didn’t show you the specific dream as Ryan and Sadie were planning, perhaps it unlocked a temporary (or, less likely, permanent) ability to lucid dream. To test this hypothesis you close your eyes and tell yourself to fly. Your reasoning being that if this _were_ a lucid dream - you would have full control the narrative. But you remain rooted to the floor of the throne room. 

“Why do you ask?” The nearness of Morpheous’ voice surprises you and you jerk your head up to see that he’s standing right in front of you now. He’s looking down at you - the imprint of a smirk across his lips. 

His proximity and subsequent butterflies in your gut temporarily push away any disappointment or confusion you were having about your non-lucid-dreaming-experience. Recalling the question he asked, you answer candidly, “I watch it every year on the first of October, and this year was the second time I watched it alone. No one was there to hear my jokes about how the demon seems like a good time.” 

He doesn’t laugh at your joke. Instead he seems to ponder this for a moment. 

“What a curious observation for a mortal. Though they can be trouble, I have known some demons who are indeed, as you would say, a ‘ _good time_.’”

“But… demons aren’t real?” 

At this Dream frowns down at you, “Of course demons are real.” He says this as if you’d said gravity isn’t real and you don’t really know how to respond to that. And you’re not about to pick a fight with the supposed King of Dreams. 

“Why were you alone this time?” he asks and gestures for you to walk with him. Like the night before, the palace has fallen away. However, instead of the arctic forest there is a white sand beach upon which the tides of the night sky roll onto. 

“Because I like being alone.” You lie. 

“That is a lie.” Morpheus doesn’t miss a thing, “Mortals rarely like to be alone. Is that why you have sought out my company tonight, _eratos_?”

There’s something seductive about the way he says this, and you ignore the tightening in your lower stomach while you admit, “Probably.” 

With a sigh, you lay down on the sand to gaze up at the navy and purple sky above. Morpheus sits down next to you, resting his forearms casually on his knees. You roll onto your side and watch him. 

“Since you are a manifestation of my subconscious, I’m wondering if I can ask you some questions? Maybe you know some answers that I don’t.” 

He looks down at you and tilts his head to the side, “Why do you think I am a manifestation of your subconscious?” 

“Because you’re in my dream.” 

“ _You_ came to _me_ , doctor.” 

Ignoring him, you sit up and point out, “Plus, you _look_ exactly like who my subconscious would manufacture to be the 'King of Dreams'. All dark and tall and anemic looking and shit. My subconscious was all, ‘ _We get it! You like your men to look like they’re dying of tuberculosis or are about to start a new wave band while at the same time are fit enough to pick you up_.’ and _bam!_ Here _you_ are.” You gesture to him. 

Morpheus is biting on the inside of his bottom lip to keep from grinning. When he composes himself enough to continue, he says, “I can assure you, your subconscious did not construct my form.” 

You blink at him. 

“While it is true I can take many different forms, this is the form I take when consorting with most mortals.” 

“So, you don’t look like this just for me?” 

When he shakes his head, a lock of hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back. 

_I don’t believe it. He’s **totally** been designed by my subconscious. Just look at him! Do you see that forearm definition? Those delicious clavicles peeking out from beneath his robe? The divot above his sternum? Clearly, my subconscious wants to keep the illusion of being sneaky. Fine. I’ll play its game._

“ _Okaaay_..., Mr. King of Dreams, can I ask you a few questions then?” 

“Is that not what you have been doing, doctor?” 

_See? Cheeky banter? Only my subconscious would know my weaknesses so intimately._

You narrow your eyes at him and begin your interrogation, “Can you explain how I got here, with you, two nights in a row?” 

“You already know the answer to that, else you would not have put the token under your pillow again.” 

Chewing the insides of your cheeks you consider this. It makes more sense _scientifically_ that the serum would be the reason for this strange bout of dreaming than a magical token. Although you _did_ put the paper under the pillow. 

“Say that’s true -,” you start only to be cut off by Morpheus saying, “It is.” 

Holding a hand out you continue, “ _If_ the token is the way I got here. Who was the woman who gave it to me and _why_?” 

“The woman is called Mad Hettie and I sent her to give you the token. A few centuries ago I assisted her in hiding her heart from my sister, so she does favors for me from time to time.” 

“I’m sorry but...,” try as you might, you can’t keep your tone serious, “You’re telling me that you sent a woman who has been alive for _hundreds_ of years to give me a token so I could have a conference with you?” 

“Yes.” If he senses your disbelief, he doesn’t let on. 

While shaking your head and holding out your hands you ask, “ _Why_?” 

“I received word about the research that you and your colleagues were undertaking and I needed it to stop.” 

With every question he answers a new one tumbles out of your mouth. Morpheus answers each them with the patience a doting kindergarten teacher would possess for their favorite pupil. 

“Why didn’t you just come down from The Dreaming and tell us to stop?” 

“Not too long ago I was held captive by some mortals - kept away from my kingdom for seventy years. Ever since my return, I stray from my domain as little as possible. Even now, decades later, The Dreaming is still recovering from the years of chaos it endured without me here.” 

This response is intriguing as hell, but his voice has a note of finality to it and you don’t want to push your luck. So you refrain from asking about his time in captivity or what happened in The Dreaming when he was gone. Instead, you ask, “Why me? Why not Sadie or Ryan?” 

“Can you not guess?” he turns his head toward you, an affectionate half smile on his soft lips. You shake your head once and he reaches forward to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, “Because, _eratos_ , for a mortal you have an _abnormally_ strong affinity for The Dreaming.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling empathetic and defensive for naked-dreamers everywhere you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at the man, “Did you make this dream?”

> Crepuscul (Latin). Twilight

_Crepuscular. Crepuscule._

After you put your phone on your chest, you lay in bed for a minute, gazing up at the ceiling while you try to sort out how to feel. 

What did Morpheus mean when he said that you have an ‘ _abnormally_ strong affinity for The Dreaming’? And why do you feel so defensive about it? 

As previously established, you _know_ you fucking love sleep. Everyone who _knows_ you knows you’re enamored with it. 

_But I’m not like… a **sloth**. I’ve graduated from medical school for Christ’s sake! It’s not like I’m **lazy**._

Was it his use of the word _abnormal_? You’ve never displayed any evidence of sleep disorders (by the way: loving sleep is not a sleep disorder, you’ve looked into it). No narcolepsy, apnea, somnambulism (sleepwalking), or restless leg syndrome. Until you’d looked at your EEG from the day before, you had no reason to believe your sleep was any different than any other person’s and you were still convinced that had to have something to do with the serum. 

In fact, you are so sure Dream’s and The Dreaming’s existence is simply an overactivation of your thalamus during REM - a hold over from the effects of the serum - that you are surprised when you find yourself in his gardens _yet again_ that very night. 

_Surprised_ but not **displeased**.

Alternatively, Morpheus appears anything but shocked to see you there. 

_But why would he? He’s a figment of my imagination._

“You are a curious mortal, doctor.” He observes, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Why do you say that?” 

“I have never known a mortal as determined to resist a fantastical explanation as you.” 

You wrinkle your nose at him. He continues before you can ask him to elaborate.

“Take the unicorn,” he gestures out beyond the field of frosty white snowdrops, (which you’re pleased to see he’s changed from the poppies) to where a pearly unicorn is grazing, “Do you know the mythical beast’s origin?” 

You shake your head. 

“When the Vikings occupied Greenland in the 10th thru 15th centuries, they frequently traded with the Inuit to the north. One of the goods provided by the Inuit was the spiral horned tooth of the narwhal. To increase their gains when selling these horns to the European nobility, the Vikings invented the unicorn. This always struck me as peculiar, because a _whale_ with a horn seems infinitely more wondrous than a _horse_ with a horn. Yet, you mortals seem to have a compulsion for making up stories and believing those who make them up.” 

You stare at the unicorn while he speaks. 

A whale with a horn _is_ more fantastical than a horse with one. Logically, since deer and rhinos and elk exist - a horse with a horn wouldn't be too far of a leap. But a whale with a horn? _That’s_ fucking crazy. Yet, one exists and the other doesn’t. One is a symbol for all that is magical and mystical, and the other is just a blurb in a zoology textbook - all because of the random value assigned to a lie told hundreds of years ago. 

“So, you see, I find you intriguing, _eratos_ ,” Dream runs a finger down your arm. You turn towards him to see that he’s looking down at you. A mildly amused expression on his face, “I have informed you many times now: I am not your subconscious, I am not your imagination. I have explained to you who I am, where you are, how you’ve gotten here and because it’s all too _fantastical_ to you, because you don’t _understand_ it - you refuse to accept my words as truth. It is… _abnormal_ for a mortal.” 

_There’s that word again. **Abnormal.**_

“You must not meet many scientists up here,” you deadpan. 

Morpheus frowns, considering your little joke in earnest, “That is an incorrect assumption. Scientists are typically avid dreamers and as such I have met my fair share. I have even created dreams to inspire them.” 

This piques your curiosity. “You _make_ dreams?” 

He shrugs, “It is more of a mutualistic relationship between myself and you mortals.”

“Explain.” you demand. 

With a sigh he holds out an arm to you and says, “It will be easier for me to _show_ you.” 

After a moment of hesitation, you grab his arm and watch the world in front of you - the gardens in the dreaming fall away. Morpheus has taken you to what appears to be the quad of a high school. 

The banisters are decked with strings of small, fluttering silver and red flags. Above your head is a banner that reads: _Go Gladiators!_ adjacent to a simple clipart rendering of a fanned-out gladiator helmet. 

The high school appears empty, but Morpheus leads you down a hallway to peer into a classroom. Inside there are a dozen students sitting at desks. One of them is significantly older than the others - middle aged. She has a sharp black bob with blunt bangs and she’s staring up at her teacher, a horrified expression on her face. 

The woman nervously explains to the man at the head of the classroom, “I’m sorry, Señor Álvarez, but I didn’t know there’d be an exam today. I… I haven’t been studying my spanish!” 

Morpheus leans toward you to explain in a whisper, “That woman is Julia Chan and we’re in her dream. In a moment she’s going to look down and realize she’s naked.” 

“But she’s not nake-,” your words drop off because when you look again toward the classroom, you see that the woman _is_ now naked. Her heavy breasts graze the tops of the desk and she seems to comprehend this at the same time you do. She proceeds to shriek and attempt to cover herself as the rest of her youthful cohort gape and laugh at her. 

“ _Oof!_ ” you cringe, “I hate this dream, I’ve had ones just like it. Poor Julia.” 

“Indeed,” Dream chuckles, “This seems to have been popular amongst mortals for the past century.” 

Feeling empathetic and defensive for naked-dreamers everywhere you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at the man, “Did you make this dream?” 

His unruly hair sways when he shakes his head, “Alas, no. The majority of dreams, for better or for worse, are made by your own minds. I _can_ manipulate and create components of The Dreaming and therefore objects in the dream. Observe.” When you look back, the classmates and teacher have disappeared and in their place is a shirtless Michael Jordan circa 1996 looking down at the bare Julia like she’s a snack. In true REM form, Julia’s neuron’s keep up a rapid pace to fill in any gaps in the narrative. She doesn’t seem astonished at all to see her presumed lover and licks her lips while beckoning him over seductively. 

“In this way, my relationship with the mortals is a cyclic one. I gain inspiration for my creations and my manipulations through what you mortals put into The Dreaming and in turn, I can send inspiration, euphoria, fear, motivation, etcetera. However, I rarely intercede. As you know, doctor, dreaming has a purpose in the human mind, and it is best to leave it to its own devices.” 

Because you _do_ know dreaming has a purpose - which evidence suggests is to facilitate long term learning and work out difficult problems - you nod. Then ask, “Why does The Dreaming need _you_ then?” Wondering far too late if it might be an insulting question to ask.

Fortunately, Morpheus doesn’t seem offended and he answers with a matter-of-fact tone, “My primary role is protection of The Dreaming. Throughout history there have those who seek to use dreams for their own devices and I cannot allow that.” 

Movement from inside the classroom has you forgetting what follow-up question you have for him. As Michael Jordan crawls over Julia and she wraps her legs around his waist, you become a voyeur - pressing your face against the glass window of the classroom. 

Morpheus pulls you away. 

“Hey!” you protest, looking longingly back toward the direction of the classroom, “That was just getting good!” But the high school has been replaced by a extensive solitary causeway jutting out into the center of a vast lake. It’s dusk and the clouds above you are gray and navy blue. Vibrant streaks of orange from the setting sun slice almost violently through the pockets between the clouds. 

“Those are called crepuscular rays.” Dream informs you.

 _Crepuscl (Latin). Twilight_

Your word root of the day. You look up at him in shock, but he’s looking up at the sky - captivated. The cold undertones of his pale skin warmed by the filtered light. 

“Beautiful are they not?” He looks down at you. You swallow and nod.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Okaaaay… just one last question: if this **is** because of the serum, why keep the token under the pillow?_

Here’s your conundrum: you consider yourself, for the most part, a reasonable, rational, person who likes to look at the events of life through a realistic lens. But this is not how you are approaching the "Morpheus Problem" - which is what you’re calling the atypical dreams you’ve been having. 

The cognitive dissonance and mental gymnastics you have to accomplish in order to justify your continued visits to the monarch in The Dreaming is exhausting (which is kind of perfect because you can get to sleep earlier to see him). 

In order to illustrate said conundrum better, here’s an example of the mind-bending conversations you’ve been having to yourself as of late: 

Rational question: _If you claim to believe Morpheus is an over-activation of your thalamus from the serum, shouldn’t it concern you that you haven’t stopped seeing him? Isn’t it, at the very least, your scientific duty to report this to either Ryan or Sadie?_

Irrational answer: _Listen, I’ll tell Ryan and Sadie once I get a better idea of what exactly is going on._

Rational follow-up part one: _Won’t you have a better idea of what’s going on if you get their help? And what precisely are you doing to ‘get a better idea of what exactly is going on’?_

Irrational answer: _**Obviously** , I’m trying to trick my subconscious into telling me what’s going on by visiting it regularly and asking it nondescript, open-ended questions. I’ll have you know that in my observations, I’ve noticed patterns and from the patterns have developed a hypothesis: if I can show that Dream consistently uses my word root of the day when I visit him - it’ll suggest he is indeed a figment of my imagination._

Rational (and now worried) follow-up part two: _Haven’t you claimed from the beginning that he exists in your mind? Are you questioning that?_

Irrational (and shifty) answer: _**No!** I mean… no. I am not questioning that. That would be… *laughs* crazy, right? So. No. I’m just saying it would be nice to have the data before I bring this to Sadie and Ryan._

Rational follow-up part three: _Okaaaay… just one last question: if this **is** because of the serum, why keep the token under the pillow?_

Irrational non-answer: _Oh my god! Would you look at the time. It’s been nice chatting with you, but you really need to be going. *shoos rational side of thought away into hidden corner of brain and slams the door on it*_

With this… _unstable_ foundation as your rationale: "testing your hypothesis," you eagerly visit Morpheus in The Dreaming. Also, you can’t help it since it’s a residual effect from the serum, _remember?_

Tuesday’s word is a softball:

> Fascin (Latin). Charm, bewitch

_Fascinate. Fascinator._

You’re in a grandiose library, a _Beauty and the Beast_ style library, sitting on the steps of a resplendent burgundy-carpeted staircase. While cautiously thumbing through an original copy of the King James Bible, Morpheus comes and sits next to you, a smug smirk on his face.

“You know, _I_ am responsible for many of the stories in there.” In response to the skeptical eyebrow you raise at him he asks, “Do you recall the brothers you passed in the cabin on your way here?” 

You chew your bottom lip as you think back, nodding when you remember them bickering before they saw you. 

“Cain and Abel. My creations.” 

When your jaw drops, he chuckles. Making him laugh has your insides feeling all wobbly and melty, which sounds like it feels miserable - but is actually quite nice. 

Taking advantage of his braggadocios mood you inquire, “How many famous tales and mythologies are you behind?” 

He shrugs, “Many, but not all. Primarily the fairytales.” 

“Any I would know? Andersen?” 

He nods. 

“The Grimm brothers?” 

He grins. 

“Shakespeare?” 

“Some.” He smooths his robe with his long fingers, feigning modesty. 

“Austen? Alcott?” 

At this he peers down at you, dark brows knit together in confusion, “Are you referring to _Jane_ Austen and _Louisa May_ Alcott?” 

This time it’s you who nods. 

“But they did not write fairytales, _eratos_.” 

“I would argue they wrote the most damaging fairytales of all.” When you see you’ve piqued his interest, you feel obscenely proud of yourself and sit a bit taller. 

“Explain.” he mimics your demand from the night before. 

_Gladly._

“Fairy tales with mermaids and princesses and talking wolves, all of those tales are clearly make believe. Call me unimaginative, but I never honestly thought I would sprout a fish tail and gills. But the magical worlds created by Alcott and Austen are so insidious because they feel so… _possible_. Reading their stories, I became convinced that there were men in existence who would love women not _in spite_ of their wit and ambition - but _because_ of it.” It becomes necessary for you to stop here and try to swallow the lump that’s grown in your throat. 

You’ve never admitted to yourself your bitterness about your trail of failed relationships. Ever since your first boyfriend in middle school, your “love life” has been an endless string of the same tired narrative. Different faces, same basic story: Boy meets girl. Boy thinks girl is funny. Boy falls in love with girl. Boy likes that girl is outspoken and ambitious - he uses her as proof that he’s “progressive” and “feminist.” Boy gets tired of not being girl’s first priority. Boy worries that girl’s career will overshadow his. Boy becomes resentful of girl. Boy falls out of love with girl. 

In this way, the quick-witted, determined, motivated female is reduced to being a novelty in the eyes of her male counterpart. She becomes nothing more than a roadside attraction. A stop before the destination. A story to tell his future well-behaved, manageable partner. 

“This has not been your experience?” Morpheus rests a cautious hand on your knee, pulling you out of your reverie. When he sees you’re disoriented by his question, he gently reminds you, “You have not encountered men who admire you for your wit and ambition?” 

You snort at yourself, thinking you must sound like the stereotypical scorned woman to him. 

_Fuck it. If I can’t be honest with my own subconscious, then who can I be honest with?_

“No.” You smile sardonically out into the empty expansive library, out to the walls made up of continuous stripes of muted forest green, maroon, and brown book spines. “That has not been my experience. Mr. Darcy, Colonel Brandon, Laurie, they might as well be unicorns. Austen and Alcott knew this when they wrote them. Neither ever married you know - not that marriage is a measure of love, but it’s still telling of their personal experiences.”

“Your thought process, _eratos_ , it fascinates me. And there is very little in this world that fascinates me anymore.” 

_Fascinate_. Check. 

Wednesday’s word is a little trickier.

> Rubr, -i (Latin). Red, reddish 

_Rubor. Ruby._

You’re confident he won’t use ‘ _rubor_ ’ unless he truly is a creation of your own mind. Rubor, in medicine, is the flush that accompanies inflammation and vasodilation. 

Though at this point you’re not sure what you want to happen - you don’t know which will be more painful. If Morpheus is confirmed to be a spectral representation of your thalamus during REM, it will feel like losing a friend. But if he exists… if The Dreaming is real, it will effectively dismantle everything you thought you knew about the human brain. All of your understanding on the brain in sleep, all of your research - it will all be brought into question. 

This is why, when Morpheus uses the word, you feel _both_ relief and disappointment simultaneously. 

He says it after you ask him, “You’ve seen me naked, haven’t you?” while you are gazing at the tapestries in the throne room which feature abundant nudity. The tiny naked bodies stitched into the cloth in every color of flesh you can think of, brings to mind poor Julia in the high school classroom. Which in turn makes you remember all the dreams you’ve had in your lifetime where you were also caught unexpectedly in your birthday suit.

“Even if I haven’t, doctor,” a teasing smile on his face, “I would tell you I have in order to see the rubor on your cheeks.” 

_Rubor_. Check. 

_Sigh...._

> Inept (Latin). Absurd, foolish

This is what you wake up to on Thursday morning, moments after Dream’s rubor comment.

Though you don’t typically subscribe to the “universe” sending you signs, you take it as one. In your modern understanding of the word, you’ve always thought of being “inept” as being more of an amateur than absurd or foolish. However, you could use all three terms to describe how you’ve been dealing with whatever it is that’s been going on in your head while you sleep. 

Foolish. Absurd. Inept. Handling yourself like an amateur. 

_It has to stop._

You’re determined to put a stop to it. At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

During your lunch break at work you send Sadie a text asking if she can meet up after your shift to discuss the “strange side effects” you seem to be having since the sleep study. Within seconds she replies, informing you that she’s at a conference and won’t be home until late, but that she can meet you tomorrow. 

Though you can’t be sure it will be your last night having the bizarre and wonderful dreaming experience with your imaginary man-friend, you walk through the gates of Dream’s citadel that night with a sense of bittersweet finality. 

As you walk through the meadow you gather handfuls of snowdrops and bury your face in them. Then wrinkle your nose when you remember that you’re not particularly fond of floral smells - they remind you of nursing homes. 

You say a mental goodbye to the obnoxious crow, Matthew. And jump and wave a farewell to the unicorn in the distance - who doesn’t even look up. 

_Whatever, unicorn. You’re not even as cool as a narwhal and those things actually exist._

When you see Morpheus your goodbye tour takes a turn, becoming more bitter than sweet. 

Though, by this time, you’ve grown accustomed to his unsettling black eyes, you find yourself avoiding them again. Because when you glance at him, an acute stabbing pain radiates from underneath your sternum. 

After several moments of you saying goodbyes to the throne room, like a fucked up version of the children’s book _Goodnight Moon_ ( _Goodbye pillars, goodbye throne, goodbye naked bodies on the tapestries, goodbye creepy helmet_...) Dream finally speaks. 

“Where are all your questions tonight, _eratos_?” 

You shrug, set on keeping your eyes glued to the soft maroon velvet of his throne. But he grips your chin and turns your face to his, forcing your resolve to crumble. While he searches your face, you hold your breath, terrified that any movement you make will break the spell. 

“You are melancholy.” He declares with a frown, sliding the pad of his thumb across your lower lip causing you to shiver. 

All at once, his face lights up. He straightens as a mischievous smile spreads across his handsome face and exclaims, “I know what will lift your spirits!” 

When Morpheus grabs your arm his citadel falls away. The smooth marble under your feet is replaced with ancient, uneven cobblestone and you see that he has transported you both to some sort of narrow back alley in…

 _Where are we?_

The buildings surrounding you are of the medieval half-timbered variety. The kind that resemble gingerbread - like from a fairytale. Outside of the alley you hear the distinct sounds of a crowd and… an accordion?

You crease your brow, “Have you taken me to…Disneyland?”

The look Morpheus gives you is as if you’ve just asked him if he likes the smell of vomit, “No. I have not brought you to _Disneyland_ , doctor. This,” he gestures his hand up toward the buildings, “is The Dreaming’s version of Dornstetten, a town in the Northern Black Forest of Deutschland.” 

“Germany?” You gape at your surroundings. 

“Many are dreaming of this village tonight. It is the final days of Oktoberfest. Thus, I reasoned we could visit and remain relatively unnoticed.” At this he frowns down at your pajamas - though “pajamas” might be a generous word for an oversized moth-eaten t-shirt with underwear - and shakes his head, “This won’t do.” 

In a flash you are enrobed in a traditional dirndl. You hold the dusky gray apron out to examine the delicate embroidery. The rest of the dress, besides the white cotton blouse underneath, is made with fine onyx material, and the bodice is laced up with a cream colored ribbon that shimmers like nacre. 

Though the dirndl that Dream has curated for you is a far cry from the gaudy costumes often worn for Halloween - with the luxurious material, intricate embroidered patterns of stars and crescent moons, and the skirt ending just above the knee - the dress still exposes an ample amount of your cleavage. Instinctively, you press your palm over your chest to cover yourself as you turn to inspect your companion - who is dressed simply in jeans, a t-shirt, and a black jacket. 

Though you have to admit, pretend-mortal-Morpheus is… mouthwatering, you roll your eyes at him. “How come **you** don’t have to wear the _traditional_ garb?” 

“Lederhosen is not a flattering look for me. Additionally, I had a suspicion you would be divine in this,” as his eyes move across your flesh they leave searing paths in their wake. ( _Are they lasers, like Superman’s?_ ) 

He holds his arm out to you and when you take it he leans into your ear, whispering, “And I was right.” 

In an effort to ignore the way you press your thighs together in response to his words, you point down to the shoes you’re wearing and shake your head, “I’m not doing _heels_ in cobblestones.” 

Though he sniffs with amusement they are replaced with a comfortable (and kickass) pair of boots. 

_Daaaamn. Are these Docs? Morpheus knows what’s up._

Since you’re not much of a _woo-hoo-party!_ type of person, attending an authentic Oktoberfest has never really been at the top of your bucket list. As such your expectations are on the stereotypical end of the spectrum. Some elements in Dornstetten meet those expectations, including: polka music, gigantic steins of beer, and of course the traditional attire worn by many attendees. 

However, there are many things that surprise you. The general atmosphere is less loud, obnoxious, frat party and more friendly, flushed, and welcoming. In the center of the obnoxiously-idealistic-looking town square is a large white canopy over a “biergarten” with dozens of tables and chairs set up. Vendors are lining the periphery of the square selling everything from currywurst and gingerbread to hand carved cuckoo clocks and lace. 

Initially you are excitable, dashing from one vendor to the next. You want to experience the festival with all five senses. You taste the salt on the pretzels, smell the spices in the gingerbread, hear the accordion player do a duet with the woman on the zither, see the intricate details carved into the clocks, and feel the gauzy threads of the lace under your fingertips. All at once, your excitement becomes sensory overload and you begin to deflate. 

Sensing this, your companion leads you to sit at a table right when the twinkling fairy lights under the canopy turn on. As the sun dips behind the horizon and the sweet, innocent cotton candy colored clouds mature into richer tones of amethyst, sapphire, and rhodolite, transforming the happy-go-lucky atmosphere into one that is acutely romantic. 

_It’s all so… dreamy._ You think without a single ounce of irony. 

“I am not the only one with stars in my eyes tonight, _eratos_.” He takes a sip of his beer and smiles graciously at the busty barmaid who sets a platter of sausages, potatoes, and sauerkraut in the middle of the table. 

Dream eagerly digs in, skewering a sausage with his fork and taking a bite. You watch, mesmerized at the way his jaw muscles work. Startling when you realize why this particular moment feels… off. You’ve never before observed Morpheus doing _mortal_ things such as eating and drinking. 

“Wait. So you eat?” 

“Of course I eat.” He gestures to the food as evidence. “Why would you think otherwise?” 

“It’s just… you’re not, strictly speaking, _human_? I mean, I don’t know the rules.”

Dream nods speaking around a mouthful of roasted potatoes, “I do not require sustenance for existence. However, it is my responsibility to understand mortal existence.” 

“So… do you like, feel _hunger_?” 

“What kind of a dream maker would I be if I did not know hunger?” 

This revelation exposes a whole new side to Morpheus you hadn’t considered before. “Do you feel _fear_?”

“Yes.” 

“Sadness?” 

Smirking at you from over the brim of his stein he says, “There she is. My Pandora with her insatiable curiosity.” 

“Affection?” You ignore him. 

He reaches across the table and brushes the corner of your mouth with the back of his knuckles in answer, causing your face to flood with heat and your fingertips to tingle. But you don’t let this deter you from asking your next question. 

In a breathless and terrified whisper you purr, “ _Lust_?”

As if on cue, his eyes fall to your chest. While he gradually moves his gaze back to your face, his lips part and your stomach twists. 

The festival dissolves. The table between the two of you, the chairs you were sitting on, the music, the laughter - it all disintegrates. The twinkling lights of the canopy transform into the stars in a velvety night sky stretching out infinitely above your head. 

Morpheus is towering in front of you, his chest inches from yours, a familiar and very _primal_ darkness in his eyes. Swept up in a flash of uncharacteristic boldness, you reach up and rake your fingers through his tangle of black hair, pushing it off of his forehead. 

“Careful, Pandora...,” his voice is a low, animalistic warning. And when he runs the tip of his index finger along the black lace trim of your bodice, every cutaneous nerve ending at the tops of your breast light up. You become the ridiculous embodiment of a wanton woman. You tremble. You whimper. Your eyes flutter closed when he leans forward, pressing his cool cheek to your blazing one, breathing into your ear, “You may accidentally open up something that has been locked away for years. Something that has been hidden away for the sake of humanity.”

Right when his hands grip your waist to pull you towards him. A deep barking sound has you jolting awake with a gasp.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Are those pigtails?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any readers in the states, this is the direct result of me trying to avoid watching the polls. I'm so fucking stressed out!! Send more canned wine! 
> 
> Hopefully this provides some much needed distraction for you as it did for me. 
> 
> Hang in there. 
> 
> <3<3
> 
> Evie

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Sadie grabs your shoulders and sits you down on your couch, “Take a deep breath.” 

Though you try to do as she says, all you can manage is a high-pitched wheezing. The neuroscientist sits down next to you and rubs your back. Fezzik, who has been on high alert since he woke you up (which for him simply means not sleeping), rests his head on your lap and whines. While you scratch him behind the ear and look into his big worried eyes, you manage to suck in a few breaths and start to calm down. 

“Now, start over. Tell me what the hell is going on? What happened this morning?” 

According to the _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ clock on your wall, it’s not even eight. This makes you laugh a short humorless laugh.

_It’s not even eight in the morning and already today has been the weirdest day I’ve ever had in my **entire life**._

“Start at the beginning,” Sadie prompts, using a gentle coaxing voice, “You said Fezzik woke you up?” 

At the sound of his voice, the canine’s ears perk up and he slides his eyes over to look toward the source while keeping his jaw rooted firmly to your thigh. You take a deep breath as you nod and tell her the events of the past few hours. 

**4:30am**

Fezzik wakes you up from your dream.

This is as irritating as it is unusual. Fezzik hasn’t woken you up this early to go out… well, _ever_. If it weren’t for the severe case of blue-balls he’s given you, maybe you’d be worried about him. Instead, you’re ashamed to admit, you are less than patient as you throw on some sweats and shoes in the dark. Grumbling all the while about how he picked the worst possible time in the history of dreaming to wake you up. 

By the time you’re walking out the door with him, he’s sufficiently chastened and you think you may have been a bit too harsh. But your sexual frustration is still too raw for you to feel guilty. 

The streets of your neighborhood are deserted and dark at this time - something that should have you on guard. Unfortunately, you barely register this because you’re a little… _distracted_ as your horse-dog pulls you along. 

Your mind is racing. You’re thinking about the dream, about Morpheus, about what he said, about what he _didn’t_ say, about the way he looked at you, about what might’ve happened if Fezzik didn’t wake you. 

_What did he mean when he said if I wasn’t careful I might unleash something that’s been ‘locked away for the sake of humanity’? Could my subconscious really be so dramatic? Also, he didn’t say ‘inept,’ today, so my data is useless now. Maybe he would’ve if we weren’t so rudely interrupted._ You shoot a glare at Fezzik who is oblivious, sniffing around a tree to mark his territory before he continues down the street and around the corner. 

_Was he going to kiss me? Did he want to do more? Would I have let him?_

At this last question, you snort because you’re pretty sure at this point you’d let Morpheus do whatever the fuck he wanted with you. If he said he wanted to put a magical dream baby inside of you you’d probably submit in a heartbeat and there is not a maternal bone in your body. 

Fezzik is now investigating the weeds growing around the base of a chain link fence. When he gets to the gate, he paws at it and looks back at you to open it. By this time your eyes have adjusted to the dark smoggy pre-dawn and you see it’s a skatepark. Since no one else is inside, you open the gate and let Fezzik off his leash to roam while you sit yourself down on top of the battered picnic table in the far corner. 

As you absentmindedly watch him run up and down the bowl, you replay the dream from the beginning to the end. Repeating the last few minutes over and over and over, remembering the way Morpheus fixed his gaze on you, the way he touched your skin. You think about it until even in the cold and frosty October twilight, you are feeling overheated underneath your sweatshirt. 

It isn’t until you hear the sharp metallic creaking of the gate that you truly, for the first time since leaving your apartment complex, register your surroundings. You are sitting in the middle of what could be a snapshot of the most fucked up page of _I SPY._

_I spy a spray painted bat, three dirty needles, a toddler’s sneaker, and the back half of a rat. Six maniacal graffiti smiles, broken glass from four different bottles, a puddle of dried orange vomit, and prickly weeds that look like they go on for miles._

You’re in The Bowery, one of the seediest neighborhoods in Gotham. The Bowery has the highest crime rates in the city and in your post-dream-haze you’ve let your dog lead you here. Your heart starts to pound in your thoracic cavity and you glance toward the gate to see a figure approaching you. When you can make out through the fog that it’s a feminine form, you begin to relax.

_Are those pigtails?_

She appears to have also brought her dog, a big scraggly one from what you can tell. You see her silhouette release the dog to go and play with Fezzik. You exhale in relief. After all, how dangerous can it be if another woman is comfortable bringing her dog here at this time? Which is currently… 

**5:05am**

As the woman comes into view, she smiles warmly at you - maybe a little _too_ warmly. You don’t know what to make of her. She’s beautiful and her sex appeal is through the roof with her skintight bodysuit hugging her hourglass curves and four inch platform boots. While her makeup and hair is overdone, in a way that is almost… clownish, the confidence she exudes prevents you from finding her ridiculous. 

The net effect of her entire person is so distracting that you don’t notice the wooden baseball bat she’s carrying until she sits down next to you and plops it down on the table between the two of you with a jarring _crack!_

“Hiya!” She greets you with an unnatural amount of enthusiasm considering the hour. Her smile is truly so enormous and dazzling that the corners of your mouth can’t help but twitch up in response. 

Deciding that it would be a good personal principle to not encourage conversation with anyone casually carrying around a baseball bat, you nod politely but then move to rise. You’re intent on getting Fezzik and getting the _fuck_ out of The Bowery before it’s more menacing residents start to appear. But a hand grips your forearm before you can stand. 

Surprised, you look down at where the stranger is holding onto you. For such a small woman, she has an unexpectedly _strong_ grip. A sense of foreboding starts to creep into your chest. 

She juts her blood-red-lipsticked bottom lip out in a pout fit more for a comic book character than a real person, then croons in a thick East Coast accent, “Tell me ‘bout him, sweetie.”

_The fuck…?_

At this point your hackles are officially raised. This woman is either on something, or mentally deranged, or both. Tapping into your training you put on your closed-off professional smile and voice. 

“I apologize, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about and I really need to get going.” 

When she scoffs and rolls her eyes you get a face full of her breath, which smells of bubblegum and vodka. 

“Ya don’t need to be coy with me, darlin’. There’s only one thing that can make a girl’s eyes go sad like yours. A man.” She gives you a searching look and then amends, “Or a woman. I don’t judge. What I’m sayin’ is it’s _heartbreak_ in your eyes. So tell me ‘bout it.”

“Oh…,” as you try to figure out how to respond to her, she lets go of your arm to rummage in a gaudy rhinestone fanny pack around her waist. “I’m not heartbroken. I’m just tired, so if you excuse me, I’ll be heading back home.” 

This time she stops you by holding out a piece of Bazooka to you while she spits out the huge wad in her mouth onto the concrete to the side of the table and pops a new piece in her mouth. Being careful to keep any judgement or disgust off of your face, you shake your head. She shrugs and pops it into her mouth along with the other - tossing the wrappers behind her. 

“You a docta?” she asks nodding toward your sweatshirt. It’s an old gray one with big purple letters spelling out, UW School of Medicine, across your chest.

“Um…,” you’re acutely uncomfortable, desperately hoping whatever you say next will get you out of this situation as soon as possible, “I am.” 

The bubble she was blowing as you spoke pops, making you jump and she shoots you another one of her big, crazy, grins, “Oh! Me too!” 

_Sure you are..._

It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes or laugh. For a minute you think you’ve failed when her face falls and she grabs the bat. You stiffen but she just lets it dangle from her hands, kicking the top of it with her boots mindlessly. It’s impulsive and fidgety, something a restless child would do.

“At least I _used_ to be a docta,” she sighs, “before they took away my license. _‘Parently_ , you can’t be convicted of arson _and_ have a license to practice psychiatry.” She leans her head toward you and rolls her eyes at you like _can-you-believe-it?_

Having absolutely no context for how to respond to this without advocating for further dialogue, you simply widen your eyes and shrug. This makes her cackle. It’s a cackle that makes your hairs stand on end. Unhinged. Unrestrained. 

Finally, you manage to stand up. Unfortunately, the woman does the same. 

She slings the bat over her shoulder and as casually as if she were telling you it’s supposed to rain later she announces, “Well, I _was_ gonna mug and beat ya. But since we’re kindred spirits, imma just mug ya.” 

This makes you laugh. 

_Why_ this makes you laugh? You’re not sure since you are one-hundred percent positive she means what she says and what she says is decidedly _un_ funny. But it makes her laugh too. 

She stops laughing for long enough to call out to her dog, “Brucie! Come here boy!” 

And your laughter dies in your throat when you see that “Brucie” is _not_ a dog like you thought but a ginormous _**hyena**_. 

“Holy _shit_!” you yelp and leap instinctively to the side, away from the beast’s sharp canines. 

“Oh, don’t git yer panties in a bunch over little ol’ Bruce.” The woman giggles manically as she gives him an affectionate pat on the head. Then her gaze locks onto yours. Even though she’s still smiling, her eyes remain cold and calculated. It’s then you know this bitch means business. “He won’t hurt ya unless you make his mama sad.” 

Once again she pulls an over-the-top pouty face and sniffs. When she does, the wild animal at her side snarls at you. They both step toward you and you step back, but you stumble and fall back onto your ass. 

“Yer not gonna make his mama sad, now are ya?” 

You swallow and shake your head up at the end of the baseball bat she’s pointing at you. This makes her squeal with delight and she holds out her hand for your wallet. Feeling beyond cowardly, especially since you’re _shaking_ , you reach into the front pouch of your hoodie and pull out your wallet. 

“Aw! For me?” she snatches it out of your hand, “You shouldn’t have!” 

_What. The. Fuck._

You watch in abject horror as she thumbs through it, frowning when she sees that you only have a five dollar bill. She takes it out and stuffs it into her cleavage. “Ya know, I s‘pected more from you, seein’ as you’re a trained physician an all.” Her voice is genuinely disappointed and you squeeze your eyes closed, bringing up your forearms to cover your head, bracing yourself for a whack. 

But it doesn’t come. Instead, she tosses your wallet back to you and you flinch when it smacks your face - hating how pathetic and utterly helpless you feel in this moment. When you peer out from one of your eyes you see her putting the leash back on her “pet.” 

When she turns to leave you let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding only to suck it right back in when she pivots back around and shouts, “Oh! Wait! Silly me. I forgot the whole reason I came out here! It was to give you somethin’.” 

She begins to dig around in her cleavage again and chuckles self deprecatingly, “I swear, I would forget my own head sometimes if it weren’t attached to my body!” 

The expectations you had for what she would pull out of her boobs to “give you” were on the painful end of the spectrum. Which is why you’re completely baffled when she - french mime style - pulls out a long ribbon and tosses it on your lap. 

It’s a cream colored white ribbon and you can see in the dim light that it shimmers… _like nacre._

_Impossible._

It looks _exactly_ like the one that laced up the bodice of the dirndl in your dream the night before. The horrible woman is sashaying away from you. You’re home free. But your curiosity overpowers your survival instincts and you jump to your feet and call out for her to stop. 

She turns to look over her shoulder at you, tapping her fingers impatiently on her hip. 

“Why… how… who-?” you’re floundering. Not sure what or _how_ to ask what it is that you’re trying to understand. 

“That guy ova there.” she answers your unasked question, pointing to an ominous looking street corner with a flickering streetlight, “The tall one who looks like Tim Burton’s wet dream -,” she breaks off to snort at her own joke before saying, “He asked me to give it to ya.” 

You crane your neck and peer to where she was pointing. You must spend a full minute squinting at the street corner until you sigh and say with confidence, “But no one’s there.” 

But no one is with you in the filthy, deserted skatepark either. The woman and her hyena are gone and Fezzik is looking up at you, wagging his tail, oblivious to the fact that his owner was just humiliated and mugged while he was off probably getting… hepatitis or something. 

You make a mental note to look up if canines can get diseases from dirty needles. 

**5:45am**

You’ve made it out of The Bowery and back to your apartment without further incident. 

You make a beeline to the kitchen and start to make a pot of coffee but in the end you become distracted by the ribbon in your hand. All you do is stand there, trying your hardest to make any sort of sense out of the past hour. Rubbing the silken threads between your fingers. pinching the bridge of your nose, rubbing your temples, thinking so hard your head begins to throb. Until at…

 **6:00am**

When your Root of the Day alarm goes off.

> Erat - o, -os (Greek). Beloved, lovely 

“And that’s when I started to…,” you nod to Sadie who squeezes your hand sympathetically, because she bore witness to the fallout after the alarm.

She was on the other end of the phone as you sobbed about how the serum was making you crazy. How you were probably going to lose your license, how you were going to be kicked off the research project. She arrived shortly after seven armed with lattes and chocolate croissants like the sweet baby angel she is. 

For the first time in your time as a resident, you call in sick. Sadie explains she only has grading to do today which she can make up later. Thus, you spend the rest of the morning disclosing the “Morpheus Problem” to her in its entirety. Starting with the “token,” your irrational justifications for keeping it to yourself, and your fears that you’re going crazy or that you’re _abnormal._

Sadie listens like a pro, making the exact appropriate noise after each disclosure. Thoughtful academic hums when you tell her about The Dreaming, worried groans when you tell her about getting mugged, and a shocked gasp when you tell her about the ribbon and show it to her. 

After your tale, a silence that blankets the two of you. Sadie is frowning down at the ribbon in your hands, chewing the insides of her cheeks. Worried she’s debating whether to tell you some horrible news, you jump to ask your worst suspicion, “Do you think the serum maybe… I don’t know, triggered some sort of mental illness in me?” 

She shakes her head, “I doubt it. If I had to guess now, I would assume the same as you. That the serum overexcited your thalamus during REM. But what I’m wondering is…,” she pauses and then turns her body to face you, “Since I’m a neuroscientist and not a neurologist, I don’t understand medicine interactions with the brain as well as you, but could it be possible the ‘token’ is displaying some sort of placebo effect and prolonging the effects?” 

You stop mid-shaking-your head to admit, “I don’t see _how_ , but at this point I’m willing to consider anything. You think l should get rid of it?” 

Sadie nods solemnly and watches you expectantly. 

“Oh!” you start when you realize what she’s waiting for, “You mean… like _right now_?” 

She nods again, “From what you’ve told me, I worry that if you don’t get rid of it now, you might make excuses to keep it.” 

Feeling sheepish at the truth in her statement, you blush and then retrieve the paper from under your pillow. You hand it to her and say, “Here. Will you get rid of it for me?” 

She agrees and peers down at the ribbon clutched in your hands, “As for the woman who mugged you, I wouldn’t make much of it. From the way you described her, I think it was someone Ryan was telling me about, a former psychiatrist at Arkham, Dr. Quinzel. He told me she went _completely_ cuckoo after falling in love with one of the patients there and has been in and out of the asylum as a patient herself ever since. More than likely your encounter with her and the ribbon was coincidence and pure nonsense.” 

When she holds her hand out for the ribbon, you know you should give it to her. Keeping it would be admitting to your reluctance to let go of the “Morpheus Problem,” and you don’t want Sadie to think you’re wanting to remain in this diseased state. Still, it takes you a few deep breaths before you close your eyes and hand it over. 

Before Sadie leaves, she offers some surprising advice. It’s the same unsolicited advice your mother gives you everytime you call her. 

“Listen, not that it’s any of my business, but it seems to me that maybe you wouldn’t have been so…,” you can tell your colleague is choosing her words very carefully, “ _Susceptible_ to the REM hallucinations if you got out there more?” As she finishes talking she winces, watching you carefully to see how her words land. 

“Are you saying that I invented Morpheus because I need a boyfriend?” 

“No!” She shouts and waves her hands, “No, no! I’m just saying, maybe you need to get out there. Go on a date. Meet some people. Nothing serious, just fun. Something to take your mind off of everything.” 

“So you’re saying that I need to get laid?” 

She shrugs and you laugh. Because you know she’s right. You _absolutely_ need to get laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I KNOW Harley Quinn has two hyenas in the comics, but I gave her one like in Birds of Prey, bc that movie was a good time in my humble opinion.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where you draw the line - where you make a boundary between scientific and personal. Because you don’t want them to see the ugly truth of your loneliness, it would be too degrading.

Sadie must have been onto something about the placebo effect of the token because after she gets rid of it, you stop having the dreams. At least you assume you stop having the dreams because you don’t remember _any_ of your dreams in the following weeks. 

The first week is difficult. 

Quitting The Dreaming cold turkey is harder than you’d anticipated. You don’t want to go as far as to say the “Morpheus Problem,” has _ruined_ sleep for you. But the transition from vivid, resplendent, intriguing dreams to nothing makes going to sleep feel like a let down. Like watching a movie you loved from your childhood as an adult only to realize it wasn’t as good as you remembered. 

Compounding this initial difficulty is the humiliation of having to sit in the lab and lay out your trips to “The Dreaming” so that Ryan and Sadie can transcribe it as data for the research. You’re pretty sure that nothing will come of your account, and know that even if something does come of it and it gets published, your name will be changed. Still, it’s embarrassing to expose your irrational justifications to your colleagues and you want to disappear when they shoot you worried and sympathetic looks over their laptops while you tell them about the ribbon given to you by the woman in The Bowery. 

You leave one thing out though, allowing yourself to keep one aspect private: you don’t tell Sadie and Ryan about the flirting, the attraction, or the fondness you felt for the imaginary dream man. This is where you draw the line - where you make a boundary between scientific and personal. Because you don’t want them to see the ugly truth of your loneliness, it would be too degrading. 

During this time you also find it necessary to adopt a new mantra: _It wasn’t real._

For example, when a raven decides to start hanging out on the fire escape outside your bedroom window, you remind yourself that ravens probably do this kind of thing all of the time and you just hadn’t noticed before. It couldn’t possibly be _Matthew_ because that would be deranged and more importantly: _It. Wasn’t. Real. **Matthew** wasn’t real._

Another significant example of this occurs one evening when Sadie and Ms. Lizzie are over at your place working on a jigsaw puzzle while eating fresh baked chocolate chip cookies that Sadie made. 

“So are you still not remembering _any_ of your dreams?” Sadie asks you. 

“None. It’s been going on…,” you look up at the ceiling to count, “ _three_ weeks now?” 

The corners of her rosy mouth slant down. But you shrug and say, “You know as well as I do that it’s not uncommon to not be able to remember dreams, especially as you get older.” 

She nods, adding, “Remembering your dreams isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be anway. The past few nights I’ve woken up from really _sad_ dreams. You know the ones that you can’t quite recall the specifics of but you wake up feeling like your heart is about to burst in your chest and you just want to stay in bed and cry all day?” 

Ms. Lizzie jerks her head up from the puzzle, points a knobby finger toward Sadie, and in her thick Polish accent says, “This one speaks truth, I have these dreams for last _two_ nights.” 

Sadie and you make eye contact and promptly have to look away to keep from laughing out loud. This has been the silver lining to this whole shitshow - Sadie and you becoming actual really real friends. In the days after your meltdown she was at your place almost every night, making sure you were doing okay, bringing you treats, watching _The Office_. She’s been a huge support and you’d forgotten how nice it is to not feel so… alone. 

Then as Ms. Lizzie stands to grab the box of puzzle pieces from across the table she says, “Morpheus must be mourning.” 

Once again you and Sadie make eye contact but this time you’re shooting each other two variations on wide-eyed stares. While yours is complete shock, hers is more amused. Perhaps it _is_ nothing more than the eccentricities, typical of your elderly neighbor, but you have to ask, “What do you mean by that?” 

“Morpheus, _mojo droga_ , King of Dream? You hear of him, yes?” She doesn’t even bother to look up from rummaging through the puzzle pieces while saying it. 

“Sure…,” you ignore the warning look you give Sadie and continue, “But you just meant that as… like a saying, right? You don’t really _believe_ in a King of Dreams, right?”

At this she frowns up at you, “Of course I do. He is of The Endless - Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium - the physical embodiments of all force of natures. My _matka_ tell me, back in old country, when I was small girl, that when Morpheus feel any strong emotion, it seep into dreams of us all. This is why he must be having no feelings. No…,” she looks between the two of you moving her hands emphatically to her heart, “ _passion_. For sake of all of dreamers, it important that his existence is lonely one with _no_ lovers or enemies or friends.” 

Your jaw drops and you recall the last thing Morpheus said to you: ‘ _Careful, Pandora or you may accidentally open up something that has been locked away for years. Something that has been hidden away for the sake of humanity_.’ 

_Huh…_

Clueless to the impact her words have on you, Ms. Lizzie shrugs and reiterates, “He must be melancholy if me _and_ freckle-face have the melancholy dreaming for two nights.” 

Sadie wrinkles her nose at the nickname your neighbor has for her, and it would ordinarily make you giggle. But you’re too preoccupied trying to remind yourself: _It wasn’t real. It. Wasn’t. **Real**. Morpheus isn’t real._

Two hours later, after Sadie and Ms. Lizzie have left, and you’re sliding into bed, you’ve mostly succeeded in convincing yourself. You remind yourself that your neighbor is infamous for being strange and superstitious. 

_This **is** the same woman who tried to convince me that if I sit down while a cake is baking it will fall._

It is entirely possible that it is her telling you this exact story, about Morpheus, sometime in the past two years could be what _created_ him in your subconscious in the first place. 

However, there is still a little voice that whispers in the back of your head as you fall asleep: _but what if she’s right?_  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Gabe Campbell looks _nothing_ like his older brother. 

Where Ryan is a clean cut academic with auburn hair and a full beard, Gabe is a dirty blonde with a five o’clock shadow, soft blue eyes and dimples when he smiles. He’s the antithesis of clean cut with unwashed chin length hair tucked behind his gauged ears, tattoos swirling above the collar of his sweater and on his knuckles, and huge holes in the knees of his pants. 

None of this is to say he isn’t _magnificently_ attractive. The man has a whole America's-sweetheart-turned-hipster-Kurt-Cobain vibe about him that you are truly digging. Truth be told, you are digging him so hard, you are straight gaping at him when he arrives at the lab to pick up Ryan for after work drinks. 

When Ryan introduces you to his brother, you manage to stop mouth breathing for long enough to shake his hand while your colleague informs you that Gabe is an… _artist_. 

_Swoon._

As a decidedly non-artistic type, who desperately wishes otherwise, artists are your Achilles heel. Gabe blushes and mumbles, “I’m a tattoo artist. Nothing special.” 

Ryan makes a _pffft_ noise and in an adorable display of brotherly affection that surprises you, he brags, “He got his degree in visual art on a full ride scholarship at UCLA.” 

In summary: Gabe is a badass. _A humble, educated, tattoo artist, badass_. Gabe is a unicorn. No. Gabe is a narwhal. He exists right here in front of you and you’d _declined_ to _go on a date with him_ a few weeks back. 

You narrow your eyes at Ryan when Gabe looks down at his phone, trying your best to transmit the message: _Okay, but why the **fuck** did you not like… show me a picture of him? I’m just as shallow as the next person and you should **know** by now that your baby brother looks like a Hemsworth gone wrong (and therefore oh **so** right)._

You’re coming to terms with the fact that there’s no way Ryan could have decoded your telepathic message from five seconds of eye contact. But you wonder when he stretches, looks to his brother and says, “I’m sorry, I really thought I could catch up on these reports by the time you got here, but I’m drowning in them. Raincheck?” 

Because he’s the actual embodiment of chill, Gabe shrugs and says, “No problem.” Then, because he’s _also_ apparently the actual embodiment of smooth, he looks at you and says, “Wanna go get some drinks?” 

And because you’re the actual embodiment of awkward, you point to your chest and blink, then look behind you. Seeing no one else there he could be talking to you ask him, “I’m sorry, but are you asking _me_?”

At this Gabe chuckles causing your stomach to flutter. 

Long story short, five minutes later you’re sliding into a booth opposite Gabe. 

After you order drinks, Gabe looks off toward something on the other side of the bar, you use his distraction to ogle his features. He has a strong, sharp jaw, with a cleft chin. Not an irritating my-daddy-gave-me-a-yacht-for-my-birthday cleft, but a subtle, rugged cleft. Who knew you’d thought enough about cleft chins to have such strong opinions of them? 

“I’m sorry,” Gabe frowns as he turns to look at you. You look away, but not quick enough, getting caught red-handed staring at his chin like it’s chocolate cake and you’ve been on the keto diet for months. However, he doesn’t appear to notice. Instead he asks, “Do you know that guy?”

Looking out in the direction he cocked his head, you see several people playing pool. None of whom you recognize. 

“The one sitting in that booth in the back corner?” he directs your gaze, “He’s been staring at you since we walked in.” 

When you see him every single muscle in your body tenses, all the breath leaves your lungs, and you get that same stabbing pain from under your sternum you had the last time you saw him. 

Sitting in the corner booth, staring directly at you, in this _bar_ , **not** in a _dream_ , **not** in your _imagination_ , wearing his delicious pedestrian clothes, is Morpheus.

And he does _not_ look happy to see you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emboldened by your sense of injustice you move forward again to stand in front of him and jab a finger at this sternum, “You think this is funny? This is all just some big, _fucking **joke**_? Is this like those Greek myths, the ones about when Zeus messed with his ‘little mortals’? Am I just a plaything to you? A _doll_ to keep you amused when you get bored?”

Several seconds after you knock on her door, Ms. Lizzie opens it with Fezzik at her heels. When she sees it’s you, the corners of her wrinkled mouth turn down, “Back already, _muy droga_? Hot date not go so hot as you want?” 

You lean forward on the pretense of grabbing Fezzik’s collar, to whisper, “Listen, I need to ask you something that’s going to be... weird.”

Ms. Lizzie’s eyebrows shoot up, hiding behind her bangs. Fezzik’s tail is whacking against the doorframe and he licks your fingers in greeting, you don’t even look at him as you absentmindedly pat his head. 

Keeping your gaze on your neighbor’s, you continue, “There’s a man standing just off to my left, can you do me a favor? Can you just lean out and tell me if you see him too?” 

Without question, she does as you ask. You exhale in relief when you see that her eyes focus on Morpheus. He nods at her and she waggles her fingers at him flirtatiously. She nudges you, “Tall and dark eyes full of mystery, like sexy vampire, no? Nice work, _muy droga_.” 

Even though you roll your eyes, you could kiss your neighbor for bringing some levity to the tense situation you’ve found yourself in. 

After you thank her for watching Fezzik, you take him home, holding the door open to let Morpheus into your apartment. To your further relief, you see that Fezzik sniffs the guest curiously. 

When Dream scratches behind the dog’s ear’s affectionately, the right side of his mouth twitch up into a half-smile. The simple sweetness of the gesture makes your stomach flutter. But when he looks back up at you his smile drops, and your butterflies along with it. 

He has not looked at _you_ with anything resembling fondness since you saw him at the bar and you might be jealous of your dog. 

After Gabe pointed him out to you not twenty minutes before, you made some excuse to leave and without another word or even _glance_ in either his nor Dream’s direction, you _sprinted_ out of the bar, crashing into a waitress on your way. 

_It wasn’t real. He’s not real._

_**Morpheus** isn’t real. _

_He. Is. Not. Real._

This is what you chanted in your head as you walked as fast as you could down the sidewalk, searching the passing traffic for a taxi. “It’s fine. This is fine. I’m just having a bit of a… psychiatric emergency.” You told yourself under your breath. 

Your plan was to take a taxi to the special behavioral health emergency room at Gotham General. Deciding it was time to be brave and face the problem head on. 

_It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll just go there and explain to them what’s happening: the man you’ve been visiting in your dreams, who also happens to be the King of Dreams, has shown up at the bar you were at. They’ll probably keep you there a couple of days, give you some assessments, and then give you some meds to sort it all out. Then this whole nightmare will finally be over._

But right when you were about to wave down a taxi, you’re stopped by someone behind you. They grabbed your wrist and mumbled into your ear, “Do you _really_ think you’re having a psychotic break, _eratos_?” 

The sound of Dream’s velvety voice sent a jolt of electricity down your spine and you have to close your eyes, giving yourself a moment to relish the sound. Hallucination or not, you admitted to yourself at that moment that you’ve _missed_ his voice. You’ve missed _him_. 

When he turned you to face him, even though you kept your eyes closed, you could _feel_ how close he was to you. When you took a deep, shuddering breath in, your chest brushed against his. 

“Open your eyes.” He ordered, keeping a firm grip on your shoulders. 

You did as he said, but kept your gaze fixed on his chest. The T-shirt he’s wearing under his jacket is simple cotton in deep, shadowy grey stretching pleasantly across his strong chest. The way his shoulders and rib cage rose and fell with each breath, it mesmerized you. 

_So normal, so... **human**._

“Look at me.” 

Slowly, so that you had time to _try_ to construct an emotional barrier, your gaze moved up - past his hollow jugular notch just above his sternum, to the angular parabola of his chin. Past his broad lips, which were cocked down in a stern expression, to his eyes. 

You gasped when you saw that they are no longer completely dark like they were in your memory. The night sky that used to take up the whole of his orbit, like a freaky galaxy contact, is now contained in the area of the iris. If you weren’t so close, you wouldn’t even notice the stars. 

“We need to talk.” 

You swallowed and nodded. 

Then, in one of the most uncomfortable silences you’ve ever experienced, you take Morpheus to your apartment building. Too scared to look in his direction, too scared to speak to him, too scared to acknowledge him. You don’t know if you’re more terrified of his apparent displeasure with you, or your own mind at this point. 

It’s not until this moment in the safety of your apartment, after picking up Fezzik that you’ve allowed yourself to really look at him again. 

“I see that you are still suspicious of my existence, doctor.” The irritation in his voice sends a chill down your spine and the grout between the tile on the floor of the kitchen becomes suddenly very interesting to you. 

“Though, I cannot help but wonder…,” when you hear how close his voice is, you look up to see that he’s moved himself _right_ in front of you. The predatory gleam in his eyes makes you swallow, “How much of it is an act.” 

Though you are confused about the words he’s just said, the aggression in which he delivers them puts you on the defense. You back away from him and cross your arms over your chest, “Are you serious?” 

You scoff at his audacity, and shake your head at the ceiling, “So you think that you can just… _show_ up to establish your… I don’t fucking know _existence_ , or whatever, after weeks of silence?” When you say _existence_ you gesture to all of him. And when his lips twitch in amusement it just annoys you more.

Emboldened by your sense of injustice you move forward again to stand in front of him and jab a finger at this sternum, “You think this is funny? This is all just some big, _fucking **joke**_? Is this like those Greek myths, the ones about when Zeus messed with his ‘little mortals’? Am I just a plaything to you? A _doll_ to keep you amused when you get bored?” 

All traces of mirth vanish from his face, he becomes deadly serious. His voice is quiet, but dangerous as he tells you, “I do not **play** with mortals, doctor. If one of us here is playing games, it is you.” 

“You have got to be shitting me!” You’re beginning to lose control of your volume and you back away from him again. “ _How_ would **I** , a mortal, even begin to know how to play a game with you, The Mother Fucking Lord of Dreams?!” 

“That is precisely what I am here trying to figure out, _doctor_.” He’s watching you carefully, as he stalks toward you. With every step he takes toward you, you take one back, fulfilling Newton’s third law of motion: _for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction_. Until you are stopped by the counter behind you. 

“How did you do it?” He growls as he moves into your space. 

“... _What_?” You’re beyond confused - you’re flustered. 

“Who’s helping you?” Though he’s not raising his voice, he’s barely holding in his rage. His hands are clenched into fists at his side and the muscles in his jaw are jumping as he grinds his molars. 

Clearly, whatever it is that he thinks you did, it’s making him furious and you know you need to quickly diffuse him. You hold your hands out in supplication, “Listen, I have no _idea_ what you’re talking about.” 

His eyes search yours and you can only assume he judges you to be sincere because he relaxes a little. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed as he does. 

After a long exhale and a roll of his shoulders, he opens his eyes again. And there’s a small, apologetic tilt of his lips as he asks, “You are not even aware that you have been removed from The Dreaming, are you?” 

A short humorless laugh comes out of your mouth as you admit, “I’m not even aware of what you just said.”

The tension in the room dissolves when he chuckles. 

But the relief is short lived. Morpheus explains that in the weeks you’ve been gone from The Dreaming, something strange is happening to both you _and_ The Dreaming.

“I’m kinda scared to ask, but what would be considered _strange_ in The Dreaming?” You reflect on your time there, remembering the chocolate milk spring, the cool sand desert, young Michael Jordan, the forest with tepid snow, the staircase of stars, the citadel, Morpheus’ citadel, made of dreams and nightmares. 

“Things keep being… _misplaced_ , and showing up where they’re not supposed to be. Some aliens I was creating were taken from my workshop and into an Australian woman’s dream about making macarons. I had not finished them yet, they were half amorphous.” 

_His **workshop?** _

He shocks you further by telling you that, “A few days ago, blood rain was pulled from the storage to traumatize a whole stadium of Italians dreaming of a football game.” 

_**Storage?** In The Dreaming?_

If your eyes get any bigger, you worry they may fall out of their sockets.

“After I ruled out the usual suspects. I started to wonder if you were using your token to sneak around the kingdom.” He runs a had through his hair, “But when I tried to find you, I discovered that you had cut yourself off from The Dreaming.” 

“What does that mean?” You interject. 

“It means that you are cut off from my kingdom, that you are not dreaming when you go to sleep.” 

You’re not sure why, because you didn’t even _know_ you weren’t dreaming, but his news lands like a blow. You’ve been robbed of something you didn’t even realize was missing. 

“But… _how_?” 

Morpheus worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before admitting, “I am not certain. In the past, for a mortal to remove themselves from The Dreaming, they have required _inside_ help. Help from ancient, powerful, subjects of my kingdom.” 

There’s a brief silence as you try to wrap your head around what he’s told you, a task that proves to be too great. The exhaustion train barrels over you, and you have to resist the potent urge to curl up into the fetal position on the kitchen floor.

“Can we take a break?” You massage your throbbing temples, “I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that, you know, you are real and all. This is just… it’s a lot.” 

Your voice breaks on the last word and your sinuses start to burn. The floodgates open, your eyes fill with tears and in a pained voice you admit, “I was sure I was going _crazy_ and honestly... I’m still not sure that I’m _not_ going crazy. I’m so scared that I’m going to lose everything that I’ve worked so hard for, everything that I’ve sacrificed so much for. My license, my research, my… _everything_.” 

Morpheus pulls you to his chest, enclosing you in his arms, “I know, _eratos_ , I know.” You can feel the vibrations from his voice on your cheek and you press yourself firmer against his chest as if you’re trying to burrow into his mediastinum. For someone so unnaturally pale, he’s surprisingly warm. 

Warm and _solid_ and... _real_. 

As if he could follow your train of thought he holds one of your hands over his heart, forcing you to feel the beating underneath, “Do you feel that?” Your cheek is a barnacle on the ship of his chest, because you refuse to detach your face from his body. You just nod and sniff. 

Letting your hand go he grips your chin and forces you to look at him. While moving his hands to frame your face, his eyes move between yours, “I am _real_. I am _here_.” 

When your chin trembles and your bottom lip juts out, he is temporarily distracted by the lower half of your face. And you almost think he’s going to kiss you, but when one of your tears hits his hand, he snaps out of whatever trance he’s in to refocus on your eyes.

“Why am I so difficult for you to accept?” He asks it with tenderness, not frustration while he swipes away your tears with his thumbs. 

“I guess it’s because I don’t… _understand_.” Your voice is as small and terrified as a mouse. 

Comprehension dawns on him and he pulls you to him again. This time you wrap your arms around his waist, needing to feel his substance, his presence, his existence. 

“Ah, my little Pandora. Always so curious. Always wanting to know and see for herself. I wonder, _eratos_ , had you been alive before Galileo would you have denied the rising sun?” He presses a kiss on the top of your head, sighing into your hair, “Before people understood how or why the sun rose, it still did. Just because you do not understand, does not mean something ceases to be.”

You don’t understand Morpheus. You don’t understand The Dreaming. And more upsetting to you, you cannot consolidate their existence with what you know - or what you _think_ you know - about how the brain works. 

Yet they exist. He exists. The Dreaming exists. The how and where and mechanisms of action? You have no _fucking_ clue. And trying to figure this out right now is like trying to build a jigsaw with only a quarter of the pieces. Nothing fits and it’s making your head hurt, it’s exhausting you. 

This is when you decide to give up, to surrender yourself to what Morpheus is telling you completely. 

As soon as you do, the neurons in your brain breathe out a collective sigh of relief, and you soften. Muscles that you didn’t even know you were tense completely relax. If it weren’t for Morpheus holding you up, you might have collapsed from the release. 

Perhaps sensing the shift in you, he leans forward, hooks an arm behind your knees, and swings you up into his arms. He’s holding you like you’re his bride and he’s going to carry you over the threshold, a thought that almost makes you laugh out loud. The King of Dreams would never do anything so mundane and mortal as get married. 

_Though he would look **divine** in a suit._

Too tired to protest, you just loll your heavy head to rest onto his shoulder and ask, “Where are you taking me?” 

“To bed, Pandora.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They do not call me ‘The Sandman’ for nothing, _eratos_.”

Even though you are the kind of exhausted that makes you feel drunk. The kind of bone-deep fatigue so severe that your speech begins to slur, that you become giggly, and a little too honest. Even though you are _this_ tired, you are still sorely disappointed to find out that when Morpehus says he’s taking you “to bed,” he doesn’t mean he’s going to strip you bare and taste every inch of your lust-burnt skin. 

What he means is that he’s going to take you to bed - to sleep. 

_Sigh._

If it’s any consolation prize (it’s not), he _does_ strip you. He sits you on the bed, then rummages through your drawers until he finds the ratty old t-shirts you use as pajamas. You watch him as he does this. It seems far too mundane of a task for an immortal King and he looks out of place in your small, messy apartment. He’s too tall, too handsome, too clean. 

T-shirt slung across his broad shoulder, he kneels in front of you and starts with your shoes and socks, lifting each foot and pulling them off. Then he helps you to stand, undoes your pants, helps you to slide them off, then sits you back down to remove them. This is all done in a very routine clinical manner, as if he’s your nurse and you’re his geriatric patient, as if you’ve done this countless times. You even lift your arms for him to remove your shirt and he does, without as much as a glance toward your chest. 

Once you’re all ready he tucks you into bed. Though your neglected lady parts are disappointed in this turn of events, your head sinks into the pillow like a brick, and your eyelids become heavy. 

“I’m not sure why I’m so… _sleepy_ all of the sudden.” you murmur up at him while he stoops to stroke your forehead.

“They do not call me ‘The Sandman’ for nothing, _eratos_.” 

“ _You’re_ doing this to me?” You mean to sound outraged, but you can’t muster the energy. 

“When you sleep, I can enter your mind and investigate what is keeping you from The Dreaming.” He explains, his palm trailing soothingly down your cheek. It feels so luscious that you close your eyes and nuzzle into it like a cat. 

When he moves to stand, you shoot your arm out and grab him by his wrist. “Stay.” You order. 

“I was planning on it, doctor. I was just going to give you some space to slip into slumber and sit over there.” He cocks his head back to indicate the chair in the corner of your room that is hidden under a mound of clothes. 

Your frontal lobe is shutting down, you’ve lost your filter. With a frown you clarify, “No. Stay here.” Patting the empty space of your bed behind you, “With me… _please_.” 

There’s nothing you want more than to fall asleep in his arms. To feel him behind you as you drift off. 

His eyes soften and he nods, “If you wish.” 

Despite your best effort, you’re nodding off as he kicks off his boots and shrugs off his jacket. But you do catch a glimpse of his arms, surprisingly strong and well defined for how long they are. And before the theta waves take over, you feel him wrap those arms around you protectively.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
“Wake up, _eratos_.” Morpheus whispers. 

You open your eyes.

You’re laying on your side in bed and he’s on his, mirroring you. So gently, you can barely feel it, he slides his hand up and down your arm while his eyes wander your face freely. He moves them over the arches of your eyebrows, the curve of your cheekbone, and then comes to rest with intense focus on your mouth. 

A fire begins to burn inside of you, originating in your lower belly, and radiating out, warming your skin. When you bite your bottom lip, he coaxes it free from your teeth with his thumb. 

“I have a sneaking suspicion my younger sibling Desire is playing games with me.” He’s so close when he says it, you can feel his breath on your cheeks. 

“Why do you say that?” You exhale. 

Instead of answering, his hands drop to your waist and he pulls you toward him, pressing his lips to yours. Your body responds instantly, as if it’d been preparing for this moment your whole life. The two of you become partners in a reflexive dance, responding to one another without cognitive direction. 

When your hands bury themselves in his hair, he flexes his hands against your lower back. When he brushes his tongue between your lips, you open your mouth to him. When you press yourself against him with crushing force, a pained groan comes from his chest.

Oxygen? Who needs it? You’ll survive on this. On the way he advances when you pull back - catching your bottom lip between his and luring you back to him. On the guttural noises he tries to repress and fails when you rake your fingers up his abdomen, kneading each solid muscle as you go. 

He shoves you onto your back and climbs on top of you, impatient, needy. The weight of his body on yours is bordering on oppressive but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You’ve forgotten what it feels like to surrender, to let your body take over. You’ve forgotten what it is to crave someone so desperately, or maybe you’ve _never_ craved someone like this before. A demanding ache between your legs has developed at an impressive speed and without giving it a second thought you tilt your hips up and rub yourself against Morpheus. 

With a hiss he pulls his mouth from yours and scolds, “Careful, Pand-,” 

But you’ve had enough. You cut him off with a snarl, “ _Oh, **fuck** careful!_” 

Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to you? Doesn’t he know how he makes you burn? How he makes you glow inside like murderous, reactive, inflammatory radium? 

The last thing you feel like being right now is careful. With your hands around his neck you bring him back down to you, thrusting your tongue into his mouth greedily and wrapping your legs around his hips. 

To your delight, he does just that: he stops being careful. Moving his mouth to kiss the line of your jaw, he reaches around to span the backs of your bare thighs with his huge hands. Then he skims them from the sides of your hips back around to the back of your knees and up again, teasing you, making you pant. 

You yearn for him. _All_ of him. Your mouth is watering at the thought of him, of feeling him inside of you. But when you reach down to undo his pants, he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. 

“You torture me, _eratos_ ,” You feel his lips move on the corner of your mouth. 

He moves to caress your temple with his mouth, “Your incessant questions, your thoughts, your mind, your words - they amaze me, they _haunt_ me.”

Then he pulls away to look down at your face, “However, the _real_ torment begins at your _mouth_ ,” leaning in briefly to nip your bottom lip, “The ideas these lips put into my mind…,” he trails off, hypnotized by your mouth. 

Driven by your desperation you tilt your pelvis up again and whimper. This brings him back from wherever he’d gone. When his eyes snap up to yours again, you see there’s no trace of stars or nebulas in them, no edges of galaxies, or meteor showers - they’re black holes, vacuums consuming all light. 

Keeping your wrists pinned firmly above your head with one hand, the other slips under your shirt. “I have imagined _invading_ you… ,” 

He growls, his fingers sliding up your abdomen, up your sternum, “ _Possessing_ you…,” 

He flicks his thumb across your nipples and you arch your back into him. His tongue runs along his bottom lip as he bends his head to you, clamping his teeth down into the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. 

He’s not gentle, but it feels so _good_ your breath catches, “And _devouring_ you in every possible way since you first walked into my kingdom.” 

The throbbing between your legs spikes, “Then why don’t you do it already?” You’re hoping to goad him into doing exactly that. Because being _invaded, possessed_ , and _devoured_ by Morpheus is all you want. You decide they’re the only things you’re putting on your Christmas list. 

To your deepest disappointment, your question has the opposite effect on him. He releases your hands, and takes his wandering one out from under your shirt. 

_No, no, no, no, **NO!** Put that thing back where it came from or so help me! (so help me, and cut!)_

“Because,” he sighs, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead before rolling off of you, “I also want to _protect_ you.” 

A familiar tune starts to play in the background causing you to panic. 

“Protect me from what?” You ask with a sense of urgency. 

His responding smile is both devilish and regretful, “From my… _hedonistic_ side, Pandora.” 

Your alarm becomes impossible to ignore now and you wake up. The disappointment you feel that Morpheus is not in your bed coupled with your sexual frustration makes you want to hurl your phone to the wall. 

Then you see the root of the day.

> Hedon (Greek). Pleasure, delight.

_Hedonism, hedonistic._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, Leonardo DiCaprio.” You sniff with amusement. Morpheus tilts his head to the side in confusion. 
> 
> “Oh come on! _Inception_?” 
> 
> Nothing.

When you fully wake up to get ready for work you become convinced that what happened to you was a dream. 

A real dream. An old fashioned dream. One made by your own mind, most likely triggered by your extreme horniness. 

The edges start to blur immediately, and the details begin to melt away, until all you’re left with by the time you step out of your _exceptionally_ long shower (for obvious self care reasons) is that you had a sexy dream featuring Morpheus. 

This is surprising. Not the content per se, you _have_ been lusting after him from the moment you saw him, but because you had a dream at all. 

Perhaps you weren’t cut off from The Dreaming anymore? Maybe it was just a temporary side-effect from the serum that wore off? Though it seems a bit too serendipitous that right when Morpheus comes back to look into why you were cut off, you regain your ability to dream. If only the mysterious dickhead didn’t ghost you sometime during the night.

How are you supposed to get a hold of him now? It’s not like you have his number in your phone. Does he have an email? (The thought of sending him an email sends you down a tiny hysterical rabbithole: _What even would his email be?! morpheusoftheendless@thedreaming.net?_ ) Do you have to summon him? Would that require candles and latin chants? You don’t have the token anymore. Maybe you’ll ask Sadie if she happened to hold onto it? 

When you pick up the phone to text her you see that, thanks to your indulgent shower and general distractibility this morning, you have about ten minutes to get dressed, get Fezzik to Ms. Lizzie’s, and out the door. 

You hop into your scrubs while brushing your teeth, throw your hair up into a bun, wake up your sleepy dog, and grab an underripe banana for the road. There’s no time for coffee and you’re already dreading the caffeine withdrawal headache you’ll get before you can supplement at the hospital.

Since it’s five in the morning on a Saturday, the subway is relatively dead. There’s only one other person in your car, a tidy elderly woman knitting what appears to be tiny slippers in a moss green yarn. She gives you a major case of side eye when you join her and when you catch sight of your reflection in the window opposite you, you can see why: you look… _unsavory_.

The tendrils of hair escaping your bun look like scribbles drawn around your face, like a cloud of dirt that hoovers around a smelly cartoon. Since you didn’t remove your makeup the night before, your eyes are ringed like a racoon from washing your face this morning. And you are wearing two different socks - one has gremlins on it, the other gingerbread men. In your defense, they _looked_ the same in your rush. ( _Note to self: I am a grown ass adult woman in a **professional field**. I should probably just have neutral colored socks._) 

You redo your bun, combing your fingers through your tangles to smooth it out as best you can and are working on rubbing off the angsty Courtney Love eye makeup when the lights in the car flicker a few times. 

When they come back on, you glance at your only companion on the train, giving her a look like _that-was-weird_ , but she doesn’t look up from her knitting. You can’t blame her, you’d absolutely do the same if a girl who looked like she mouth-washed with gin this morning was the only person on the train with you. 

So you shrug and look forward again, only to yelp and practically jump out of your skin when you see in the reflection of the window that Morpheus is sitting in the seat next to you. 

“Relax, doctor,” His voice is so soothing that it’s, paradoxically, unnerving, “You do not want to make a scene.” 

He flashes a charming smile at the woman over your shoulder and when you turn to look at her you see that she’s back to minding her own business. 

“What the fucking _fuck_?” You hiss as round on him, “Who do you think you are? Batman? You can’t just appear out of _nowhere_ after some creepy lightshow out of a horror movie.” 

He completely ignores your outburst and gets right down to business, “There seemed to be some sort of mechanical receptor block on several of the vital neurons for dreaming. I was able to resolve the problem easily.” 

You flush. Does he know that you had a sexy dream with him in it? Did he watch you? 

Deciding it would be best to act natural you clear your throat and say, “It must’ve been a reaction to the serum, like I thought. I’ll be sure to let Sadie and Ryan know.” 

Morpheus frowns and shakes his head, “That is the other reason I wanted to speak with you. Last night I did some investigating into your colleagues and I believe the psychiatrist may be behind the recent events in my kingdom.” 

“Ryan?” You furrow your brow, trying to picture the soft spoken Ryan wreaking havoc on dreamers. “Why do you think he’s behind it?” 

“He is employed at Arkham, and he would not be the first psychiatrist to be led astray by one of their patients there.” He gives you a pointed look and you swallow, remembering staring down the end of Dr. Quinzel’s baseball bat.

Shaking your head rapidly back and forth a couple times to recenter your rational side, you argue, “Okay, but that alone isn’t enough to be suspicious.” 

“That is not the only reason I suspect him. He knows of the token and of the dreaming. You told me yourself that you told him.” 

“Yes, but I also told Sadie. In fact, I _gave_ the token to Sadie. So by that logic, shouldn’t _she_ be the primary suspect?” 

He runs his hands through his hair and looks down at the toe of his boot, it looks so harsh and adult next to your checkered canvas slip ons. Feeling suddenly ashamed of your shoes you cross your ankles and tuck them under your seat. 

“Yes.” Morpheus admits, “However, I looked into her past - she has no priors and no record other than a parking citation.” 

“What did you find on Ryan?” You ask it breathlessly making you sound like the office gossip. 

“From what I can tell, Ryan Campbell did not exist until ten years ago. I found no birth record, no high school diploma, nothing.” 

This makes you sit straighter. 

_It **is** always the quiet ones…_

Still, the picture of Morpheus, The King of Dreams, doing something as plebeian as looking through records doesn’t sit right with you. 

“Can’t you just… I don’t know like…,” you do amorphous magic/jazz hands in front of you, “ _Walk into their minds_ and find out if they’re doing it or not?” 

After a beat of silence you look at him, he’s raising an eyebrow at you. 

You cross your arms over your chest, “I don’t know how this works, how _you_ work. Don’t _judge_ me!” 

There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips and after making you sweat for another few seconds he finally admits, “I did that. Last night your friend Sadie was dreaming of a chocolate chip cookie puzzle that she could not put together because she kept eating the pieces.” 

You snort. _Classic Sadie._

Also, you begin to relax because from what he’s telling you, it sounds like he was busy last night. Probably (hopefully) too busy to witness you trying to get into his dream-self’s pants. 

His voice gets lower and more serious, “But I could not see what Ryan Campbell was dreaming without making myself known. The psychiatrist has defenses up in his mind that only a mortal who has been living their whole lives with secrets has.” 

_Huh._

The more you think about it, the more sense it starts to make. What do you _really_ know about Ryan? You brainstorm: 

_He has a ‘brother’… who looks nothing like him. He has a wife, but that’s not saying much, BTK also had a wife. Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. Just because Ryan has secrets and maybe, **maybe** , is wreaking some havoc in The Dreaming, that doesn’t mean he’s a serial killer._

“Okay. So what now? Do we confront him? Is there some sort of HR at The Dreaming we can take him to?” Because Morpheus doesn’t laugh at your joke, you do. _Someone’s gotta._

“No. _You_ will watch him and report back to me. It would be best not to confront him until we understand more of his motivation. If he is reporting to someone else, we might lose any leads if we act rashly.” 

The authoritative tone to his voice makes your head hurt, or maybe it’s the caffeine withdrawal. Either way, you lean your head back against the window behind you and rub the back of your neck, “Listen. I want to help, I’m a horrible spy… and I just don’t have _time_ to be following around one of my colleagues. Plus, he’ll get really suspicious when I suddenly want to hang out all the time.” 

“I have thought this,” Morpheus is unflappable, “Dr. Campbell will be inviting you to a dinner party his wife is hosting tonight. Accept the invitation and see what you can find out.” 

_The fuck?_

Sensing your confusion, he explains, “I have planted the idea in his wife’s mind through a dream.” 

“Okay, Leonardo DiCaprio.” You sniff with amusement. Morpheus tilts his head to the side in confusion. 

“Oh come on! _Inception_?” 

Nothing. 

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket and you shake your head as you pull it out of your pocket, “Oh, you _really_ need to see that movie. It’s right up your alle-,” 

But you stop. Because when you look back up you see, he’s gone.   
.  
.  
.  
.  
Morpheus was right. Ryan invites you to an, ‘impromptu dinner party that Mindy is hell bent on throwing tonight,’ according to the text he sends you at lunch. It will be you, some of Mindy’s friends from yoga, Ryan, and Gabe. 

The last thing you want to do after work is snack on a vegan cheese board while drinking wine so old you’re pretty sure it’s just vinegar. You’re especially not looking forward to seeing the beautiful Gabe after you ditched him mid-suspected-neurotic-breakdown. But per your ‘instructions’ from Sir Sandman you accept. Even over text Ryan seems surprised. 

“Rough night?” Kevin, the douche-canoe first year resident is trying to make conversation with you while you’re on your lunch.

You look up from your phone, cold-brew still attached to your lips. If you could, you’d mainline it with an IV. A cocky smile spreads across his mouth when you face him and he reaches out to brush the edge of your scrub collar, above the clavicle. When you flinch away from him as violently as if he were trying to brand you with his fingertip, it only serves to amuse him further. 

“I’ll take _that_ as a yes.” He nods toward the spot he just touched, “In fact, looks like _someone_ likes their nights… _rough_. You know what they say, it’s always the quiet ones.” He winks and you feel a wave of nausea. 

_Fucking, Kevin_. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if you lose brain cells just from listening to him. The ones in your auditory cortex probably get so sick of hearing his voice they just decide to apoptose. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You say in a definite _this-conversation-is-over_ tone as you look back to your phone. 

In true disgustingly confident form, Kevin leans in and whispers into your ear, “I’m talking about the _bite_ marks on your neck, _little lady_.” 

You sit up so fast some coffee sloshes out of the top of your cup and onto your lap, but you don’t notice. With an expression of amusement, Kevin watches you try to look down at where he pointed, giving yourself a thousand chins and a crick in your neck as you do. But you can’t manage to glimpse that area on yourself. 

“Here, baby girl.” Kevin croons, rolling his shop stool up behind you. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and holds his phone out in front of the both of you as if you’re two BFF’s going to take a selfie at Coachella. 

He snaps the photo. He’s smiling and giving the thumbs up. But you look as if you’ve just seen a ghost, your fingers brushing the border of what are _clearly_ bite marks in the bend where your neck meets your shoulder.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Endless have been around… well, we’ve always been here. We’ve watched the rise and fall of civilizations, of dynasties, of empires. And I’m not just talking about you mortals, cupcake, we’ve looked on as countless gods have come to power only to be forgotten, thrown out like yesterday’s news, and replaced by new ones. During plague, famine, war, victory - we’re there and we’ll be here until my sister claims the last living thing on this planet.”

When you tell Ms. Lizzie about the dinner, she - as always - has absolutely no problem keeping Fezzik with her until tomorrow. But you become riddled with guilt whenever you think of your beloved, enormous, baby. With how much time he spends with her, he probably thinks he’s your neighbor’s dog instead of yours. 

This is why, when you are walking to your apartment after work to shower and get out of your work clothes before the party, you stop at your neighbor’s to peek in on him. Ms. Lizzie’s apartment is the mirror image of yours. Same white-tiled kitchen but to the right instead of left. Same ancient brown carpeted living room, but her hallway branches off to the left instead of right. But her apartment has a distinct undertone of broth and cigarettes that yours doesn’t. Even when she’s been baking, as she has been today, the hints of savory and smoky tickle your olfactory receptors. 

“You want cupcake?” She offers gesturing to the platter of grim looking cakes with canned Funfetti frosting slouching off the sides. 

You smile but shake your head, “No thank you.” 

Baking has never been Ms. Lizzie’s forte, yet she persists. If you wanted to, you could use her to make some poignant analogy for motivation. Instead, you usually end up wondering if she has some sort of injury to her prefrontal lobe that’s affecting her short-term memory. Because how else does someone, after _years_ of making cake, repeatedly forget to wait until the cake is cooled to put on the frosting? 

At the sound of your voice, Fezzik’s head pops up from the couch and he makes an excited whining noise in his throat. 

“What you’re not gonna get up and greet me?” you tease as you sit down next to him and give him indulgent belly rubs. He sits halfway up to lick your hands and face. You don’t mind. You love your giant grey sack lazy bones.

“Horndog exhausted himself from being stalker all day.” Is Ms. Lizzie’s cryptic response. 

You roll your lips between your lips in an effort not to guffaw and she does nothing to help your situation when she asks, “Is blonde bitch still out in courtyard?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific there, Liz.” You watch her as she shuffles over and plops her tiny tired form into a threadbare wing-backed chair with the stuffing poking wildly out of holes in the side, like the two tufts of Einstein's hair.

“All day long blonde bitch in courtyard, being tease, making all dogs want to sex her.” 

Understanding dawns on you, “ _Ooooh_! You mean an _actual_ bitch. A female dog.” 

“Yes. Bitch. This what I am saying, no?” You nod at her and she sighs, “She must be in the heat because _this_ one,” she kicks her leg out to point her slipper aggressively toward Fezzik, “Was doing the howling and the barking at the window for _hours_.” 

The old woman pinches the bridge of her nose and slumps down in the chair even further, “Mine god! It give me headache I tell you.” You flash Fezzik a stern look and gesture to Ms. Lizzie as in _look-what-you’ve-done!_ At least he has decency to look shamefaced, widening his eyes and flattening his ears. 

However, his remorseful face just so happens to be fucking adorable so you instantly forgive him and pat him on the head. 

“Are you sure you’re okay to watch him tonight?” The hope in your tone is undeniable. 

You imagine telling Morpheus that you couldn’t go spy on Ryan because your perverted horse-dog gave his sitter an aneurism. You’re sure he’ll be understanding. Isn’t that what powerful immortal beings are _known_ for? Being forgiving and lenient on their mortal subjects? And never ever throwing control-freak temper tantrums and, like, flooding the whole planet. 

Oh wait… 

“No, no, no, _muy droga!_ ” Ms. Lizzie stands up and hurries over to you, tugging you up from the couch and pushing you toward the door, “You work yourself too hard. You need man. Go to party. Find yourself man. Fezzik will be good now that blonde bitch gone.” 

“But you don’t have a man. _Ow!_ ” You point out while she’s poking and prodding you with her surprisingly strong fingers toward the door. 

Ms. Lizzie waves this away, “When I have young tits like you, I have many men.” You can’t stop the guffaw this time and even Ms. Lizzie croaks a laugh. 

She shoves a cupcake into your hand, “Go. Take cupcake and have many men while your tits nice and tall, _muy droga_.” 

“ _Tall_?” You try to look back at her, but she’s hidden behind your back, pushing you like a boulder, “Do you mean high? Like _perky_?” 

But Ms. Lizzie has closed her door behind you. 

You’re still laughing and shaking your head as you unlock the door to your apartment and walk inside. It takes you until you hang up your keys, take off your coat, and slip off your shoes to notice something is… _off_. 

The first thing you notice is the smell. How do you describe it? It's petrichor, and wood, and mint, with an undertone that is spicy, musky, and primal. Is it possible to describe a smell as erotic? If so, that’s what you would call it. 

When you see an unfamiliar leather jacket thrown across the backrest of one of your dining chairs, your sympathetic nervous system kicks on. Your heart rate skyrockets, your pupils dilate and your stomach drops as if you’re plummeting down a drop on a roller coaster. 

“Hel… _lo_?” You start the word out strong and midway through chicken out, so that the last half comes out in a timid squeak. 

“There you are!” A melodic voice calls nonchalantly from your bedroom. 

The person attached to the voice steps into the kitchen and they are, hands down, the most beautiful person you’ve ever laid eyes on. They are neither masculine, nor feminine, rather they possess an ethereal, androgenous, yet distinctly _human_ beauty. Though they embody neither and both sexes, there is something overtly sensual about them like Ruby Rose, or Legolas. They have symmetrical features, perfect bone structure, flawless skin smooth as butter, and glittering golden irises.

You’re so entranced by them that you remain rooted to the spot as they sashay toward you with open arms - as familiar as if you’ve known them your entire life. When they reach you, they look you up and down, eyes focusing on the cupcake still gripped in your hands, “Oh, what a _sad_ little cupcake.” They sigh with a disappointed frown, taking it from your hands and setting it on your counter.

When they turn back to you, they flash you a smile so dazzling you feel like Mowgli being hypnotized by the snake Kaa. “So here you are, the _doctor_ who’s got my big brother all worked up.” 

You’re frozen. You want to ask who they are, but your mouth won’t obey any orders. You want to back away as they walk toward you with a carnivorous glint in their eye, but your feet are glued to the floor. 

They inspect you as if you’re produce at the grocery store. They grip your chin and turn your head side-to-side. When they lean in to smell you, you can tell that the heavenly scent permeating your home is radiating from _them_.

“Hmm,” they stand back and tap their chin, “Well, you’re no Helen of Troy, or Marilyn - that’s for sure.” 

“Monroe or Manson?” Of course _this_ is the moment when your tongue decides to work. 

The stranger’s eyes go wide with surprise, their perfect lips parted ever so slightly. And you hold your breath until they abruptly throw their head back and laugh. 

“Oh, cupcake!” they sigh, wiping tears of mirth from their eyes, “You are a _delight_. I can see why Morpheus enjoys your company.” 

_Wait. What?_ You’re struggling to keep up. 

At long last, taking stock of your evident bewilderment, the beautiful person startles and whacks their wrinkle-less forehead with the heel of their hand, “God, I’m such a dolt sometimes. I haven’t even introduced myself to you. You must be terrified, poor dear!” 

You laugh nervously in confirmation and they hold out their hand to you, “I’m Desire. Dream is my older brother.” 

In something that feels like deja vu, a hazy memory from your dream the night before starts to crystalize. Morpheus, gazing at your mouth saying, ‘ _I have a sneaking suspicion my younger sibling Desire is playing games with me._ ’ 

As if they’ve read your mind, Desire says, “I see you’ve heard of me.” They look obscenely proud of themselves. 

Now knowing the relationship between the person in your apartment and Morpheus, you examine them afresh. True to their birth order, Dream is the more stoic and serious of the two, whereas Desire is charming and carefree. 

“Why… how…,” While you’re trying to pin down exactly what you’re trying to ask Desire, they’re watching you with a patronizing endearing glint in their eyes - as a parent would watch their child stumble through a piano recital. 

Your tongue feels thick and clumsy, but at long last you finally manage, “What can I… help? You? With?” 

“You’ve already given me what I came for. You see…,” Desire trails off and looks around your cramped space, “Let’s get _comfortable_ while we get to know each other. What do you say, cupcake?” 

The seductive way Desire says this puts you on edge. You are self conscious and don’t know what to do with your hands, settling for wringing them in front of you. Being under Desire’s scrutiny, you decide, is not unlike being in the presence of the mean, popular kids in middle school. You want them to like you so badly, and yet you’d rather be _anywhere_ else. 

As if this were _their_ apartment, not yours, Desire grabs your hand and leads you to sit down next to them on your couch. 

“As I was saying,” they pull their legs up and sit cross-legged, “This morning my big brother comes to see me and he is… well he’s agitated. He’s ranting and raving about how he’s warned me about playing my games with him -,” Desire does a sidebar here, grabbing your hand and leaning in to confide, “I _do_ love to play games.” 

“ _Anyway_ , he starts accusing me of placing a doctor in his path, a _sleep_ doctor of all things, who he seems to be having a hard time resisting.” At this Desire waggles their brows at you and you blink slowly, “But here’s the thing, cupcake, I had no _fucking clue_ what he was going on about. And let me tell you something, I have been trying to get under Old Morhpie’s skin for _millenia_.” 

_Old Morphie?_ You try to swallow your snort of mirth back and end up triggering a coughing-fit as if you’re drowning on dry land. 

Obvious disgust crosses Desire’s face as they watch you. 

_Oh god, kill me now._ Your whole entire face feels like you’ve just fallen first into a bed of hot coals. 

“So... I had to see for myself what makes him… tick?” They wrinkle their nose and all at once your defenses wake up from hibernation. You go from humiliated to outraged in less than twenty seconds. It happens so fast you get emotional whiplash. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Desire’s eyebrows shoot up at your outburst, “You break into _my_ home, _my_ private space, to examine _me_ and find me… what? _Underwhelming?_ Not good enough for your brother? Not pretty enough? Not _desirable_ enough? Well you know what? **I didn’t ask for any of this!** I didn’t ask for your brother to… ‘enjoy my company.’ I didn’t ask for him to send me weird sexy dreams that make me question my sanity. I didn’t invite you here to make me feel like shit. So if you’d kindly get the _fuck_ out so I can get ready for my party I’d really appreciate it.” 

The silence following your tantrum is loaded. When Desire overcomes their astonishment they transform their pretty face into a mask of contrition. 

“Oh, no! Cupcake, no!” They swoosh in to wrap you up in an embrace, smashing your face to their chest, “I apologize. I see now how horrible this must seem to you and let me be the first to tell you,” they lean back to look into your eyes, “I think that it’s just _awful_ that a sweet, intellectual, mortal girl such as yourself has been caught up in the games of my older brother.” 

At these words your fiery injustice-fueled confidence evaporates and your tension starts to drain. But then you register the last few words they said. 

“... _Games_?” You peep. 

Desire’s responding sigh is heavy, “Before you think too harshly of Morpheus, let me explain a few things. The Endless have been around… well, we’ve always been here. We’ve watched the rise and fall of civilizations, of dynasties, of empires. And I’m not just talking about you mortals, cupcake, we’ve looked on as countless gods have come to power only to be forgotten, thrown out like yesterday’s news, and replaced by new ones. During plague, famine, war, victory - we’re there and we’ll be here until my sister claims the last living thing on this planet.” 

You’re transfixed, watching the words spill out of Desire’s mouth, “As you can imagine, it can get… boring. So when a diversion falls into our laps, we never waste it. This time _you_ just happened to be that diversion for my brother.” 

_Oof._ You lean back and place a hand on your belly, where it feels like you’ve been kicked by a horse. 

It’s not like you hadn’t suspected as much, you’d even accused him of playing with you the night before. The slice of betrayal is even deeper having your suspicion denied by Morpheus only to be confirmed by Desire. 

“You know what?” There’s an optimistic tone to Desire’s voice, “I like you, cupcake. You’ve made me laugh tonight, and that’s more than most mortals do. So I’m going to help you.”

They scooch in close and look around the room as if anyone else could be listening in, “I looked in on what information I had on file for you before I came here tonight.” 

_Information? On file?_

You should be flabbergasted. But, honestly, your bucket that holds your shock emotion has been draining rapidly over the past day and all you can muster with this mind-boggling tidbit is a mild eyebrow raise. 

“Now, I’m not _technically_ supposed to tell you things like this, but I happen to know that there is a _very_ _good looking_ mortal man you will be seeing tonight - what’s his name? Gabe?” You sit up straighter and Desire smiles knowingly, “Anyway, I happen to know he wants to do… wonderfully, _filthy_ things to you.” 

Because you are a modern woman who has been raised in a toxic consumerist culture that has - despite your best efforts to counteract it - ingrained in you a disgusting belief that the most important trait in a female is to be desired you perk up and say, “ _Really_?” 

Plus, if recent events have indicated - you _really_ need to get laid. And Gabe looks like someone who could get the job done and then some.

Desire beams at you and in a lower voice confirms, “Truly disgusting. But in the most delectable way, cupcake.” 

They hop up and clap their hands then stroll over to the kitchen. With a loud authoritative voice they announce, “Here’s the plan: you’re going to _stop_ pining for Morpheus. He’s not available. He’ll destroy you. And I’m going to help you by transforming you from a sad cupcake, to a delicious one.” Desire grabs the cupcake from Ms. Lizzie’s off the counter and when she turns to you it’s no longer there. In its place is a mouthwatering cupcake with a luscious cloud of fluffy buttercream piped two inches thick on top and icy, glittery sprinkles frosting the edges. 

“You’re going to get cleaned up, put on the lacy black lingerie, and the little black dress that I laid on your bed. _Then_ , you’re going to go to that dinner party and let Gabe and his depraved mouth help you forget all about my brother.” You’re so transfixed watching them lick off a mouthful of frosting off the cupcake, you don’t notice the raven who’s been perched by your window ruffling its feathers in agitation. 

And you _definitely_ don’t notice Desire’s wicked grin when the raven flies away, as if it has some important news to deliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desire's here to eat some cake and fuck shit up, and they've had their cake.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to go to social events on my own._

Ryan and his wife Mindy live in Old Gotham in a picturesque brownstone on a quiet, idealistic street lined with towering ancient oaks. 

As you push open the iron gate with a squeak and teeter precariously up the steps to the front door in the heels Desire demanded you wear, you have the strangest sensation of being a puppet. You’re here on two different agendas, neither of which are yours, in clothing so unlike anything you’d ever wear it might as well be a disguise. 

Inside you are hollow, wooden - a marionette. Your thoughts and opinions on the task ahead are so irrelevant that you’ve set them aside, you’re propelled forward only by the strings that have been tied to your limbs, controlled by two of The Endless. 

When Mindy answers the door to you, wearing flowy silk harem pants and a form fitting crop top that shows off her yoga-toned stomach, you flush. You’re overdressed. You feel clownish with your bold “fuck me” eye-makeup (as Desire so eloquently put it) and teeny tiny dress. However, the hostess gives you a warm smile and receives your customary bottle of wine with grace before pulling you in for an embrace. 

You’ve only met Ryan’s wife once before in passing and only know five things about her: she is a yoga instructor, her father is Brazilian, she has the delicate bone structure to pull off a pixie cut, she’s “a hugger” ( _shudder_ ), and she likes to play matchmaker. 

“We’re a no-shoes house,” she says apologetically, as if it's something she can’t help. But you sigh with relief and step out of the torture devices attached to your feet. 

“I’m glad you could make it!” she enthuses, leading you into a large space off the kitchen that is both the dining room and parlor. The decor is mismatched boho, eclectic chic - meant to look as if every object has a back story from whence it was lovingly collected by it’s whimsical owner. But in reality everything most likely was purchased at a steep price from Anthropologie. 

There are half a dozen people chatting in clusters, every single one of them looking as if they are at a pricey yoga retreat in attire similar to Mindy’s. You tug at the hem of your dress and suppress your urge to dash to the bathroom to wipe off the deep plum lipstick on your lips. 

You search the group for a familiar face, but you don’t see Ryan or Gabe. They’re not amongst the group lounging about on oversized floor cushions sipping wine around a low coffee table with a record player playing _Fleetwood Mac_. Nor are they with the crowd standing around the long Spanish-mission-style table picking at appetizers. 

“Excuse me,” your voice is so formal it’s jarring. Mindy blinks at you with her huge brown eyes. “Could you point me to the… facilities?” 

_Did I just ask where the ‘ **facilities** ’ are? This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to go to social events on my own._

Mindy gives you vague instructions that you promptly ignore once you slip away. 

The rest of the house is dark, which serves to make you feel even more like a sleuth as you creep up the stairs, feeling your way blindly while your eyes adjust. When you get to the landing at the top, you peer down the hallway bathed in blue light from the moon streaming in from the arching skylight windows above. 

You skate down the hardwood floor in your sheer black stockings, peering into the open rooms as you go. You pass a bathroom, a spare room, and stop at what looks like a study - double checking the hallway for witnesses before tip-toeing in and closing the door behind you carefully. Once the door _clicks_ closed you walk over to the desk in the middle of the room and click on the industrial-style architect lamp. 

This room is the first space you’ve seen in the Campbell’s house that you can picture Ryan in. In sharp contrast to the decor of the rest of the house this room is simple, tidy, and functional. The furnishings are sharp mid-century modern. The walls are lined with built in bookshelves filled with academic texts, antique books, and - are those binoculars? There’s two tall, vintage olive green filing cabinets in one corner, and in the other - 

You jump and scream. 

“Whoa! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Gabe, who is lounging on the squashy dark chocolate leather couch sits up, a genuinely apologetic expression on his handsome face. 

“ _What the fuck_?” You wheeze, clutching at your chest. Your heart is racing beneath your fingers, “What are you doing just sitting up here in the dark, like some sort of... _creep_?” 

Gabe smirks at you as he stands and your stomach flutters - but you’re not sure if it’s from his panty-melting smile or your guilt. 

“I should be asking you what _you’re_ doing sneaking around my brother’s house, creep.” 

“I’m looking for him. Your brother, I mean. You know, Ryan?” Could you sound more suspicious? 

“Oh you mean my _brother_ Ryan?” He bites his lip to keep from laughing and some of the tension drains from your shoulders. If he’s teasing you, you must not be in too much trouble. 

He strides over to lean against the table, running a hand through his hair, “He’s held up at work.” 

“Oh.” You frown down at the hexagonal patterns in the rug underneath your feet. Ryan’s been held up at work? What would a psychiatrist at Arkham possibly have to stay this late for? Dream’s suspicion that your colleague is involved in some shady stuff is beginning to look more and more probable. 

“I was thinking the exact same thing.” Gabe sighs. 

Your eyes flash to his, “What?” you whisper, your voice shaky. 

Can he read your mind? 

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” he repeats. His sideways smile is mischievous, “I _really_ don’t want to go downstairs either. If I get roped into another conversation about juice cleanses, I’ll lose it. Why do you think I’m hiding out up here?” 

You almost laugh out loud with relief. 

However, the fact that you jumped to such an outlandish, irrational conclusion with such conviction is... unsettling. How you yearn for the simpler times, when you would never assume someone could read your mind. And by ‘simpler times’ you mean forty-eight hours ago, before The Endless decided to wreak havoc on what you thought you knew about scientific laws. 

Shooting Gabe a look that you hope registers as guilty you say, “Am I _that_ transparent?” 

He chuckles in answer then does a quick, non-invasive, almost gentlemanly perusal of you, announcing, “You look like you’re feeling _much_ better. It must’ve just been some food poisoning?” 

When he sees your evident confusion he prompts, “Last night? At the bar?” 

“Oh!” You nod, scrambling to remember what excuse you’d used to get out of there quick and with no follow-up questions. But it feels like ‘last night at the bar’ was a decade ago, so you keep it vague, “Yeah. I _am_ feeling much better thank you.” 

“I’ve gotta say, I’ve never before had a date tell me she has to go because she had - what did you say?” From the sparkle in his eye can tell he’s toying with you and a pit of dread starts to build in your stomach. “Oh yeah! You said you had to leave because you had... diarrhea.” 

_Womp. Womp._

“Jesus christ,” you groan and hide your face in your hands. You can feel Gabe’s laughter shaking the desk, “You must think I’m disgusting.” 

In your defense, that _is_ the best ‘no questions asked’ way to get people off your back - and you needed Gabe off your back. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you missed the day in school where they taught everyone how to not be painfully awkward. 

“I don’t think that…,” 

You peek out of your fingers at him to see that he’s got his eyes laser focused on your legs. Your dress has ridden up a bit, exposing the lacy top of your stocking and above it a teasing glimpse of thigh. Thinking back to what Desire told you about Gabe, ‘ _I happen to know he wants to do… wonderfully, **filthy** things to you_,’ you flush. 

When you clear your throat and pull your dress down, Gabe has the decency to be embarrassed at getting caught red handed, fixing his gaze out the window. 

“Huh…,” he huffs curiously, after a moment, crossing his arms across his chest and standing a bit straighter, “I didn’t know ravens were nocturnal.” 

You follow his gaze to the window and when you squint to see past the reflection of the two of you, you see that Gabe is right. There’s a beady eyed raven perched on the sill, looking in at the two of you as if you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. 

_Fuck._

Maybe it’s _not_ Matthew, maybe it is just a bizarro… hyper focused nocturnal raven? Either way you decide to play it safe and get down to business. Something tells you Morpehus won’t be very happy to hear that he inceptioned Mindy just so you could get ogled by Ryan’s hot younger brother. 

As evidenced by your painful awkwardness, you’ve never been one to utilize your ‘feminine wiles’ to manipulate others, but now seems as good as time as any to experiment with it. Worst case scenario you fail miserably and Morpheus has to spy on Ryan himself. Now that you think of it, that sounds like the best case scenario - you’re not even a full day into doing his bidding and you’re tired of it. 

Doing your best to channel the confidence of a Bond girl, you hop up and sit on the desk. When you lean back, you cross your legs - letting your dress slide up to reveal your garters and the tops of _both_ your thighs. To your delight you succeed in getting Gabe’s attention and for a brief moment his jaw goes slack. Your ego grows to the size of a mammoth. 

“So, Ryan’s your brother huh?” As soon as the idiotic words are out of your mouth, you want to suck them back in. 

Gabe looks at you like you may have lost a few too many brain cells, and you don’t blame him. In fact, you’re starting to wonder the same thing. Ironically, in this moment the fate of your ego is that of the mammoth - it’s driven to extinction. 

You sit up straighter, uncross your legs, and pull your dress down again, “I mean, I know he’s your brother, obviously. I guess I was just wondering what it was like… you know growing up with him?” 

Gabe shrugs and sits on the desk next to you, “I don’t know. Same as it is growing up with any sibling. We fought over toys and attention and knew how to push each other’s buttons.” 

“Well that’s the most generic answer I’ve ever heard,” you roll your eyes, “Come on! Give me something good, Gabe!” You hope you’re coming off more flirtatious than desperate. 

“Like what?” Gabe picks at his thumbnail. 

“Like…,” you look up at the ceiling and pretend to be thinking about what you want to know, kicking your legs mindlessly, “Did he horde his Halloween candy or binge it? Was he a rule-follower? Did he wet the bed? Was he a pyro? Did he have lots of secrets?” 

Gabe narrows his eyes at you and his demeanor becomes chilly, accusatory. “ _Why?_ What do you know?” 

If this isn’t a confirmation of some suspicious shit going on with Ryan, you don’t know what is. 

You widen your eyes and go for the guilt-trip. “Whoa! I can tell I hit a nerve. Sorry, I was just trying to make conversation with you. If you can’t tell by now, I’m really bad at it.” 

“No,” he puts his hand over yours. When you look up at him he’s the very picture of repentant, “ _I’m_ sorry. I’m just… a little protective of Ryan is all. He hasn’t had the easiest life.” 

_Interesting…_

“Hey,” with his other hand he turns your face to his. He’s so close your nose is almost touching his. His eyes are a deep indigo and his pupils dilated in the dim light of the study. “I _really_ want to have a conversation with you. Actually, I think I want to have a _lot_ of conversations with you, because you…,” he searches your eyes and when he reaches up to tuck your hair behind your ear, an electric zinging feeling travels from where his fingers touched your cheek all the way down to your toes, “ _Intrigue_ me. Let’s just not have conversations about Ryan, okay?” 

You swallow and nod. When he brushes your nose with his and leans in, you close your eyes. But right when his lips brush yours the door bangs open and you both reel away from each other, guilty as a child with their hand in the cookie jar. 

“There you are!” Mindy looks between the two of you and her face darkens - or maybe it was already sour, you can’t tell. “What’s going on here?” 

“Nothing!” Gabe’s voice is a surly growl. It surprises you and when you look at him you see he’s glaring at Mindy. 

She glares right back at him and says, “I need to talk to you.” 

With a sigh that reminds you of a teenage boy resentful of being ordered about by his mother, Gabe stands up from the desk. You get the distinct impression that Gabe doesn’t like Mindy. Before he walks out into the hall he turns to you, he holds a finger out and says, “I’ll be right back and then we can continue this _conversation_.” 

After Mindy flashes you a very fake smile, she slams the door behind them, leaving you wondering what the fuck just happened. 

But this is just the first in a series of events that unfold over the next ten minutes that leave you feeling bewildered, that you can’t seem to make sense of. 

Pressing your ear to the door in an attempt to eavesdrop on what is being said in the hall, you can tell from the sharp, hissing quality of the whispering that it’s an argument. You can only make out all of two whole sentences, both spoken by Gabe before before he’s shushed by Mindy: ‘ _Are you fucking serious?_ ’ and ‘ _What the hell happens now?_ ’ 

Abruptly Gabe’s voice raises, making you jump back from the door. “You know what?” you hear him snarl, “Fuck this. I’m out.”

As his heavy footfalls move down the hall and down the stairs, you hear Mindy call after him, “Real mature, Gabe!” 

You’re stuck between wanting to leave and not wanting to be seen by anyone. Wrapping your arms around your middle protectively, you glance around the room as if at any moment a magic carpet will appear to whisk you away. Then your gaze falls onto the window. You walk over to it and heave it open. The cold air rushes in, taking your breath away, blowing the curtains back.

Once you recover from the shock of the temperature change, you lean out and look down - bracing yourself on the ledge. It wouldn’t be possible to make a safe escape from here, but one of the first floor windows has a narrow dormer and it looks close enough for you to reach. If you could manage to swing yourself onto it, you could use the iron rose trellis to shimmy down into the garden and then you’d be home free. 

Because you’re an adult woman, and not an impulsive adolescent, this plan gives you pause. 

_Sneaking out of a colleagues dinner party through the window? It’s ridiculous! It’s unprofessional! It’s freezing outside and my shoes and coat are downstairs. Put on your big girl pants and leave out the front door like a normal person._

You’re about to close the window when you see them - three figures standing just outside of the streetlight in front of Ryan’s house. You squint and lean forward further, trying to get a better view. When you remember the binoculars on the bookshelf you gasp, and sprint over to retrieve them. 

With your new enhanced vision you see that the three figures are Ryan, Mindy, and Gabe and they look… grim. Gabe’s arms are crossed defensively over his chest, jaw tight. Mindy is speaking, and crying, and gesturing wildly to Ryan who is spine-chillingly calm, _psychopath_ calm. Compared to the raw emotion on the other two’s faces, his is completely blank and robotic. 

Whatever is being said down there, you _need_ to hear. You’re certain whatever it is they’re talking about is connected to whatever is happening in The Dreaming. If only you could hear them, then this whole night wouldn’t have been for nothing. You spend about five seconds trying to read Mindy’s lips before deciding lip reading is way harder than the movies make it look. 

Apparently, you _will_ be going out the window after all. You turn off the lamp so that if someone happens to look your way, no one will see you climbing out, put the binoculars around your neck, and crawl out onto the ledge. 

Nausea grips your stomach when you look down initially. And as you turn yourself around to begin your descent you chant, “ _Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down._ ” This is your mantra. 

As you lower your body slowly over the ledge and flail your legs out in the direction of the gable you remind yourself, “ _Don’t look down._ ” 

Your feet don’t find purchase so you lower yourself until you’re looking into the study with your chin resting on your arms folded on the ledge, the rest of your body is dangling off the side of the house. 

Regrettably, your dress has decided it doesn’t like heights and has clung onto every possible surface in your descent until it is bunched up around your hips. This means your bare thighs and nearly bare ass are exposed to the sharp late-autumn air, hanging out for anyone with night vision goggles to see. 

You’re not exactly known for your upper body strength and your biceps are trembling from trying to hold you up. “ _Don’t look down_.” you snivel, trying to stave off the panic building in your chest. At this point you’re violently jerking your legs in the direction of the gable, the fine fibers of your stockings catching on every single brick it encounters. 

Finally, after you sink a hair lower, the toes of your right foot find it. In your triumph you make the mistake of relaxing. Your exhausted arms completely give out and you plummet down. Your foot slips from the gable and with adrenaline fueled reflexes you manage to grab onto the ledge, halting your fall with a jolt. Pain radiates in your shoulders and the only thing keeping you from a two story fall and a broken leg is the strength of your grip. 

You adopt a new mantra: _fuck fuck fuck shitballs fuck fuck shit_. 

The pull of gravity is getting stronger with every second, even your head is beginning to feel heavy. You contemplate calling for help, but decide a broken bone couldn’t be as painful as the humiliation you’d endure if you are found like this. 

Too stressed out and terrified to full-on cry, you make a pitiful whining sound after you try one last time to reach the ledge and fail. You’re just working up the courage to let go when a voice from the window above speaks down to you. 

“Would it be safe of me to assume you require my assistance, _eratos_?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But you should know by now that Morpheus very rarely does what you’d expect him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going to wait a few days to post this, to polish it up, and make it pretty - but I'm too excited about it and wanted to share. Lmk if there's a bazillion typos or if it's nonsense. 
> 
> xx
> 
> Enjoy!

You’ve never been happier to hear that voice, which is truly saying something since it might be your favorite sound of all time. 

The ease at which Morpheus hoists you up and back in through the window of the study is impressive. He braces you with a cautious hand above your elbow until you get your bearings. 

After you pull your dress back down you do a quick assessment, coming to the conclusion that you’re a mess. Your stockings are shredded, more runs than nylon at this point. Your hair is strewn wildly about your face, and the cold is causing your teeth to chatter dramatically, like a pair of wind up teeth. 

“Come here.” Morpheus orders, holding open his trench coat. 

There are at least ten reasons you want to do as he says, and of those reasons only one is thermoregulation, the rest have to do with your desire to touch him, to smell him, to listen to his heartbeat. This is why, even though your shivering is rapidly escalating into full blown convulsions, you hug yourself and shake your head. You don’t want to be played with anymore, not even by the literal man of your dreams - Morpheus. 

“Do not be daft, doctor, you are freezing.” The look he directs your way is withering, but you firm your jaw in resolve. Well, you _try_ to firm your jaw in resolve but because of the chattering of your teeth you accidentally bite your tongue causing your eyes to water.

In exasperation, he closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Then after a sigh he drops them and reaches you in two long, purposeful strides, pulling you to him, and trapping you in with his coat. 

Upon sensing the delectable heat from his body, you become a parasite - instinctively pressing yourself against him in order to leech as much warmth as you can. Your traitorous arms wrap around his middle and you pin your cheek to his chest. Your teeth stop crashing together as violently, your face muscles begin to slacken, and you let your eyes fall shut.

Underneath Dream’s coat, time disintegrates. You have no idea how long you are in there transforming, melting, reestablishing homeostasis. It’s a much needed reprieve from the tension and vulnerability you’ve been incessantly bombarded with for the past few hours. You’re safe in here with Morpheus, hidden, and for a moment you feel like you might be drifting off to sleep. 

When you feel him peeling back his coat, you reflexively flex your muscles against him before remembering you don’t want him to think he can use you as a ‘distraction.’ It’s difficult, but you make yourself open your eyes and move away. 

As you take a step back, your jaw drops when you see that you are no longer in the study - but in the living room of your apartment. 

“Wait. You can… _teleport_ , or whatever, here? On Earth? With me?” You think back to the infinitely awkward taxi ride to your apartment with him from the bar and frown. 

“I can. However, as I am trying to keep a low profile, I use _standard_ methods of transportation in public places. Though I must admit I find them rather tedious.” 

Ecstatic to be home and that you got here without having to see anyone or do any awkward goodbyes you plop yourself down on your couch and smile contentedly. 

Morpheus watches you while he leans against the counter and asks you about the party. You relay the events. Telling him about Ryan being suspiciously absent, about the fight between Mindy and Gabe in the hallway, and the argument that you were trying to eavesdrop on when he found you dangling from the ledge.

The crease between his brows deepens and he bites on the inside of his bottom lip as he mulls over what you’ve told him, staring with unfocused eyes at the swirls of your Persian rug. 

Worried that he’s going to ask you to do something further, you preemptively announce, “I’m done with this.” 

His eyes are so sharp when they cut to you that you suck a breath in and give yourself a mini internal pep talk ( _I can do it! I’m a strong, independent woman who can stick up for herself. *high five*_ ). 

“Explain.” The register of his voice is low, reaching all the way back to the apex of your cochlea. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore…,” it becomes necessary for you to look away from the severity of his gaze. You fixate on the runs in your stockings, pulling absentmindedly at the thin fibers waving like tiny tentacles. Once you do the tremor leaves your voice and you begin to speak with conviction, “I’m not spying on Ryan for you anymore. I’m not getting dressed up and playing secret agent. I’m not going to be your, or any of your sibling’s, puppet anymore. And I’m not going to be your distraction. I won’t. I deserve better than that.” 

“Matthew tells me Desire was here. Is this their doing?” When he says _this_ he gestures to you. 

You scoff and sit up straighter, meeting his gaze, “Do you think I’m completely incapable of independent thought? That I can be molded into whatever you or your family wants of me?” 

“What did Desire want?” He stands up straighter, crossing his arms across his broad chest. When he does this, you have the impression that he’s too big for this room. His form dominates most of your view, making you feel insignificant. 

“They just wanted to give me some advice.” Your response is delivered in a prickly, borderline petulant tone. You’re starting to feel ignored. Either he’s not hearing you, or he doesn’t much care what you want.

“Let _me_ give you some advice,” Dream’s jaw ticks. He’s just as annoyed as you, “Whatever Desire tells you to do, you will be better off doing the opposite.” 

“Noted.” You narrow your eyes at him. “So you’re saying I _shouldn’t_ let Gabe fuck me senseless then?” 

You know in the animated _Hercules_ film, when Hades gets so furious his whole face is engulfed in red flame? That’s what you imagine when Morpheus steps forward, hands clenched into fists at his side and through gritted teeth bellows, “ ** _What!?_** ” 

Perhaps being yelled at by an ancient, powerful embodiment of a natural force shouldn’t make you feel like you are filling with helium, becoming light enough to float away. But it’s beyond satisfying to see him exhibiting such a primal jealous response… over you. 

_*fans self*_

You look down at your stockings again to hide your smirk. 

Keeping your voice cloyingly casual you explain, “Yeah. You see I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell ever since… well, ever since I moved to Gotham. And I’m not sure if you know this or not, but this can be a point of aggravation for us ‘ _mortals_.’” you do finger quotes around the word _mortals_ and shoot him a pointed look, “ _Anyway_ , making matters worse I’ve been having all these unsatisfying, sexually frustrating dreams, so when Desire told me that Gabe wants to do _filthy_ things to me….,” you trail off and shrug innocently, relishing the way his eyes flash. 

“Of _course_ he wants to…,” Morpheus is floundering and it’s bizarre to see him acting so _mortal_. You love it. You feel almost… _giddy_ over it.

He huffs, “I mean, just _look_ at you!” He waves a hand in your direction and then begins to pace like a caged tiger, running his hands through his hair, clenching his fist and jaw, mumbling incoherently under his breath. 

As you watch him, your schoolgirl glee starts to turn into genuine concern. Perhaps you’ve taken things too far. In the past he’s always appeared in complete control of himself. Even when things were getting hot and heavy in your dreams, he seemed very conscious of the decision he was making. But now he is unraveling before your eyes - becoming unhinged. 

Wrapping an arm around your waist protectively, you twist your bottom lip between your index finger and thumb. Should you say something? 

Abruptly he stops and peers down at you, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Then Morpheus does something you never thought you’d see him do. 

He curses. 

“ ** _FUCK!_** ” It comes from deep within his abdomen, trembling with his irritation. 

You’re so shocked by it, that you are in a daze as he storms over to you with long purposeful strides, and jerks you up off the couch while stooping to cover your mouth with his. 

At first, you are a deer in the headlights - eyes round, unblinking, body rag doll. But when Morpheus’ hands begin to slide, you shudder, your eyes flutter closed and you open your mouth to him. 

He slides them from your waist and up your ribs. He brushes them across the sides of your breasts and over your clavicles. Finally, he comes to a halt splaying his long fingers out across your throat, his thumbs on your jaw acting as a lever, angling your head back to deepen the kiss.

Piece by piece your body starts to catch up. Your tongue presses against his with the same bruising force and he groans into your mouth. Your hands grab fistfuls of his shirt, feeling the warm, hard ridges of his abdomen against your knuckles and the fiery coals of lust begin to glow deep within your stomach. 

_This is real. Please tell me this is real._

Dragging his mouth from yours, he leaves you gasping for breath as he drops his palms back down your throat and to your waist, freeing up your jaw for him to trace with his lips and line with tiny shiver-inducing bites. 

“Morpheus…,” your voice comes out hoarse and you hesitate. “This is… this real isn’t it? You’re really here right?” You have to know. 

When he pulls back to look at you, he keeps you against him with his hands at your lower back. His eyes are black velvet, hooded, and intense. 

You swallow, gathering up the tattered remains of your courage, and beg him in a timid whisper, “ _Please_... tell me this isn’t a dream.” 

He reaches down, coasting his hands over your ass and gripping your upper thighs to hoist you up and press you against the solid evidence of his arousal. While he does this he brings his lips to yours, so close they touch when he whispers, “Does this feel like a dream, _eratos_?” 

Though you shake your head, you slide your tongue across his bottom lip and breathe, “Yes.” 

With a growl trapped, vibrating in his chest, he lifts you up completely off the ground and you coil your legs around him, squeezing his waist between your thighs like an anaconda. You dig your fingers into his deltoids as he jerks forward to catch your bottom lip and rake it slowly between his teeth. 

“I can assure you, this is not a dream.” He reaches back, grabbing your ankles and unravelling your legs, letting you fall back from him and onto your bed. 

You don’t remember how you got to your bedroom, it’s entirely possible that you were too distracted by Dream’s mouth to notice him carrying you here. Hell, you could have been beamed here by an alien spaceship and you wouldn’t give a shit, as long as you ended up here, in this moment with Morpheus looking down at you the way he is. His chest is heaving, and there’s a primal, animalistic, gleam to his eyes that drives the air out of your lungs. 

The force of his gaze is so intense it’s almost tangible. You can almost _feel_ the pressure as his eyes slither from your cheeks to your breasts, down your abdomen, and to your thighs. The power of your attraction to him is so potent that he’s not even _touching_ you and you’re out of breath. 

“What are you doing?” The desperation is front and center in your voice. 

“Admiring and deciding.” 

You’re almost scared to ask, but after a few beats, you do anyway, “Deciding what?” 

His eyes find yours again, blazing into you like bits of plasma breaking off of the sun. 

“Your dress, Pandora. Take it off.” 

Obedient and eager, you crawl to the edge of the bed and raise yourself up on your knees in front of him, your eye level with his sternum. Needing no instruction, he reaches around you and bends to lower the zipper, his face fractions of an inch from touching yours as he does. He doesn’t kiss you, or touch any part of your bare skin - but his mouth is so close to you, you can feel his breath on yours. 

It’s insane how erotic this moment is, this exchange of breath. You can’t remember a time in your life you’ve ever been this turned on. 

Completely unzipped, you grab the hem of the dress and pull it over your head, tossing it aside like a shed skin. Morpheus sucks in a breath as he takes you in and you say a silent thanks to Desire for making you wear the black lacy lingerie set with a pushup bra that makes your girls look fan-fucking-tastic. 

You’re ready, waiting for him to invade you, possess you, devour you as promised. Any moment you expect him to snap, lose the shreds of control he’s holding onto and go all animal-style on you. Not only do you expect it, but you’re counting on it. 

But you should know by now that Morpheus very rarely does what you’d expect him to. 

He lays a heavy palm on the center of your chest, brushing the tops of your breasts with his fingers as he pushes you back down on the bed. It’s not an aggressive shove, but it’s jarring enough to make your heart stutter a few times. Then he moves his hand down your sternum, and lower, turning at your navel to your hip. He’s entirely focused on his path, lips slightly parted until he gets to his destination - your thighs. 

There are eight cutaneous sensory nerves that transmit sensation from the skin of the leg to the brain. Morpheus doesn’t neglect a single one. 

As he unclasps your left garter, he skates his tongue along the scalloped lace edge of your stocking and you press your thighs together to temper the pulse between them. You salivate as you watch him leisurely come back to a standing position, bringing your leg and stocking with him, never once taking his mouth off your skin until the stocking is off and his mouth is at your ankle - which by this point is resting on his shoulder. 

After lowering your left leg, he repeats the same process with your right distilling your lust, making you whimper and whine and writhe. By the time he’s done your chest is heaving and you feel crazed, dangerous, reactive. 

Morpheus crawls over you, resting his elbows on the either side of your head, toying with your wild woman hair splayed out above you, “I should be asking _you_ if this is a dream, _eratos_. If I could dream, it would be of this - of you looking at me the way you are now. As if you are about to eat me alive.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now you understand exactly what Desire meant when they gave you the warning: 
> 
> _He will destroy you._

“Your turn, _eratos_.” 

After Morpheus has gotten you out of your stockings. He stands at the edge of your bed. There’s a brief moment of confusion until you realize he means it’s your turn to undress him. 

Initially your pace is impatient. You crawl to the edge of the bed, standing on your knees again, and violently shove off his coat and tug off his shirt. You make frustrated noises in the back of your throat when you require his assistance getting it over his head due to the height differential. But once you behold him in all his topless glory, you slow down. 

This is because the clinical anatomist side of you has perked up at the sight of this perfect human specimen, staving off the horny-cavewoman side of you. Thus, you proceed to do something of a very unprofessional clinical assessment on him. 

You start with his muscles. Skating your palms over the firm, smooth swell of his pectorals transitioning to your fingertips when they give way to the ridged, compartmentalized muscles that makeup his abdominal sheath. When you reach his waistband and watch these muscles bunch in anticipation, you bite your lip and look up at him. 

He’s watching you, barely constrained hunger in his eyes, lips parted. Although this makes your stomach twist in anticipation - you shake your head. You’re not done assessing him yet and he’ll have to be patient. 

And he is. 

As you twine your fingers with his to flex and extend his wrist, watching all the intricate tendons and muscles in his forearms bundle together and then relax, you can feel his eyes on you. 

Bringing his palms to your mouth, you press a kiss to each one before putting them on your hips. Sensing your need to absorb him, to confirm his existence, Morpheus dutifully keeps his hands where you’ve left them. 

You press your fingers to his carotids in his neck, one at a time - feeling the thrum of his pulse beneath them. Then you move to the space below his fifth rib on the left side of his body, below his nipple, feeling the thrum at the apex of his heart. 

You grab one of his hands off your hip and thrust his index and middle finger up under the underwire of your bra, under your left breast until he’s at the apex of _your_ heart. For an instant you stop breathing, feeling his cardiac muscle hard at work, squeezing and slackening at the same pace yours is. 

“Can you feel that?” You whisper. 

He nods while sucking in a deep breath. 

“It’s _incredible!_ They’re the same. They’re in sync. Your body, it’s like mine. It’s almost like it’s… human.” 

“My form _is_ human, doctor.”

You frown, “I don’t understand. Why do you need a heartbeat if you can’t die?”

“For the same reason I have touch receptors, as you do,” as he says this he slides the straps of your bra off your shoulder and bends forward to kiss the hollow above your clavicle. Your legs shake. 

“For the same reason I have taste buds, as you do,” he crouches down and glides his fingers around your ribcage. When he unclasps your bra, he swirls his tongue around your freshly exposed nipples. They pinch in response and you close your eyes, sighing while clasping handfuls of his thick black hair. 

“And for the same reason I feel _lust_ ,” when he says this word, he looks up at you while his right hand makes a beeline for the apex between your thighs. He puts the _exact_ right amount of pressure with his thumb on the _exact_ spot you crave it most, and you moan. “...As you do.” 

His breath is hot over your rib cage as he moves lower, sliding his teeth over your hip bone while gripping the backs of your thighs. Dream teases you by nibbling on the waistband of your panties for a good ten seconds. Then he flips your legs out from under you, once again sending you crashing back to the bed. 

While he’s working his way back up your torso with his mouth, he slides your underwear off with quick, and graceful fingers. And you’re so busy unraveling as he lightly clamps his teeth around your nipple that you don’t notice he’s taken off the rest of his clothes until you feel his skin against yours. 

“But...You didn’t answer my question.” Your temporal lobe, the part of your brain in charge of sexual desire, is screaming at your prefrontal cortex: _Shut the fuck up!_

_But he didn’t!_ Your prefrontal cortex shrugs and forces your mouth to remind him, “Why do you need to feel all these things?” 

You think maybe he didn’t hear you or is ignoring you and you’re not sure you care, but when he gets to your ears he whispers, “Because, my curious Pandora, how could I understand dreams if I did not know what it was to want someone as badly as I want you right now? How could I rule over the realm of fantasy if I do not know how _this_ feels?” 

When he says _this_ he slides inside of you. Slow but steadfast until he’s to his hilt. While he does this you arch into him. You register a mewling sound and it takes you a second to realize the sound is coming from _your_ larynx. 

“It is as if you were made for me, _eratos_.” He groans, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes closed in an expression similar to that of pain. 

You sigh, breathing in the air from his lungs as he begins to move, rocking and swiveling his hips in all the right ways, making you tighten and throb and shudder around him. 

The sensation of being famished winds around you like ivy. It’s a specific kind of hunger, not for food, but for Dream. You become greedy. It’s not enough that you have him moving inside of you, you need to consume him, to taste him. 

You grab his hand and thrust his ring finger inside your mouth, savoring the salt of his sweat, sucking him in until your eyes water and you gag. You do the same to each and every one of his fingers. As you do, you are being watched by eyes that are black like the night sky, full of rapture, brimming with you. 

This escalates things, causing Morpheus to shift the pace from slow, deliberate, and in-control to vigorous, ferocious, and instinctual. 

It’s glorious. 

The things his body is doing to your body... He’s giving you palpitations and making you speak gibberish. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, you flex your fingers, digging your nails into his back, and you have the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life.

Though you’re temporarily blinded in the aftermath of the overpowering ecstasy, you regain your sense of sight in time to witness Dream’s undoing. 

The sight of Morpheus, usually in complete control of himself, coming apart at the seams on top of you - it’s something that will be on replay in your mind for the rest of your life. It’s your new happy place, watching the delicious involuntary movements and jerks of his body. Feeling every anatomically perfect muscle of his tighten against you as he pushes into your depths, gripping your hips to him like you’re the only thing keeping him afloat. 

In an effort to ground himself, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and you love knowing the marks he’ll leave. You’ve become completely primal underneath him, dying to be branded and claimed by him. 

But you’re already dreading all the moments that will come after this, when he’s not here. Because now you know what paradise feels like, everything else will be empty and hollow in comparison. 

Now you understand exactly what Desire meant when they gave you the warning: 

_He will destroy you._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

> Copul, -a (Latin). A link, a bond. 

_Couple. Copulate._

Clutching your phone to your chest, you close your eyes and smile, remembering the night before. 

Glancing down at your shoulder, you see the marks left by Morpheus. And you bite your lip when you remember the way he fretted over you and gently kissed the area in apology after you both transformed back into civilized beings. Shortly after that, he’d pulled you on top of him and wrapped you up in his arms. Neither of you spoke, both of you rendered speechless. 

He lulled you to sleep with succulent, soothing strokes of his long fingers on your back and delicate kisses on the top of your head. After the best sex of your life, you had the best sleep of your life, with only one brief dream before waking. One of Morpheus telling you he’d be gone when you woke up. 

_I cannot be absent from The Dreaming for long, eratos, not while there are intruders. However, I will be back in your bed tonight._ He’d told you before bending down to place the softest of kisses at the corner of your mouth. 

You’ve officially become a pathetic romantic type of person because your heart is practically vibrating in your chest as you think of him. 

No wait…

That’s not your heart. It’s your phone _literally_ vibrating on your chest. 

It’s Sadie. 

“It’s about fucking time!” She snaps before you can say hello. “I’ve been calling for an hour!” 

“Oh.” 

Looking down at your phone you see that you have eight missed calls and twelve text messages from her. You sit up, fully awake now. 

“What’s going on? Is everything okay? Is it Ryan? What did he do?” 

“Everything will be amazing if you and Ryan can just get to the lab before _Bruce **Mother Fucking** Wayne_ decides he _doesn’t_ want to donate to our research.” Her voice is all crazed and whispery like a chain smoking viper. He must be nearby. 

“Bruce Wayne?” You furrow your brow, but are already pulling on some leggings, “You mean the spoiled brat ex-frat brother man-child? _That_ Bruce Wayne?” 

Sadie’s sigh is impatient, “ _Yesssss_. That Bruce Wayne. His butler, or secretary, or whatever called me at five in the morning, said he’s been trying to get ahold of Ryan.” 

You straighten, remembering the shady shit that was going down at Ryan’s dinner party the night before, “Ryan? Why does he want to talk to Ryan?” 

“He’s interested in funding our research I guess. But he wants to talk to the ‘rest of the team’.” You can _hear_ the quotes around the last few words. 

You tell Sadie you’ll get there as soon as you can (after coffee of course), hand up, and dance your way through getting ready. While twisting your hair back into a braid and brushing your teeth, you hum along with “Love Song” by _The Cure_. 

You’re feeling lighter than air. 

First, you wake up with those just-amazingly-fucked hormones making you all glowy and bubbly. Then, you get news that Gotham’s token rich dick wants to fund your research.

As you waltz out your door you peel off the note that was stuck to it. In beautiful calligraphy style handwriting that _definitely_ doesn’t belong on a neon green post-it, it reads: 

_You have opened the box, Pandora. Tread lightly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For someone who enjoys reading smut as much as yours truly, you'd think it wouldn't give me such a major case of writers block. 
> 
> Anyway, hope it wasn't complete garbage. 
> 
> <3 <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne is attractive if you’re into the whole Gucci suit, yacht life, mouth full of blinding white teeth, American Psycho vibes type of guy.

You tread lightly alright. 

Really, you might as well be in a 90’s romantic comedy with the way you’re walking down the street with a ridiculous grin spread across your mouth. You’ve lived long enough in the city to know that the only types of people who act like you are now while walking down the street are serial killers, psychopaths, and/or people about to ask you for money. 

Yet here you are, smiling like a _fool_ over a roll-in-the-hay with Morpheus. It’s no wonder everyone you pass is staring at you and doing double takes. One guy even drops his keys into the gutter as he watches you walk past. 

“Lookie there, Cap’n!” A toothless man shouts to his grimey dog in the subway as you walk down the steps, pointing at you from his fingerless gloves, “It’s her! The woman from my dreams!” 

This is when you decide you should _try_ to control yourself, to avoid drawing any potential unwanted attention. Though you have to bite your lip quite hard to keep your smirk under-wraps, you manage to keep your head down until you get to the coffee shop by the University. 

There, you order yourself a nitro cold brew and a hot chai and chocolate croissant for Sadie, knowing there’s nothing that pulls your colleague out of a funk faster than tea and pastries. When the hunky barista calls your name, you walk up to the bar to retrieve it. 

“Thank you!” You flash him a polite smile and he looks up from the latte art he’s pouring, does a double-take for the books, and stares at you open-mouthed, spilling the whole carafe of steamed milk on the counter. 

You decide to shrug it off as that post-orgasm glow you’ve got going on and walk out of the cafe and into the University standing a little taller, a little more confident.   
.  
.  
.  
.  
Bruce Wayne is attractive if you’re into the whole Gucci suit, yacht life, mouth full of blinding white teeth, American Psycho vibes type of guy. 

Though you can see how one could fall under his spell, he reminds you too much of the Kevins of the world. You like your men with a little more depth, with a hint of mystery and tragedy to them. Bruce Wayne has clearly never had to work hard for a thing in his life. 

You and Sadie are watching him from the one-sided observation window in the sleep lab while he’s lounging in an over confident slouch on the bed, scrolling through his phone. Periodically he directs his sharp indigo eyes in your direction and even though you know he can’t see you, you still feel naked when he does.

You don’t like him. 

“I’m surprised he is up this early on a Sunday morning. Shouldn’t he be in bed with four champagne soaked supermodels until lunch time?” 

Sadie laughs at your joke through a mouthful of croissant. You were right. Caffeine and glucose has much improved her mood. 

“He probably hasn’t gone to bed. Look at those circles under his eyes - he’s a tired boy.” She says with a patronizing exaggerated frown, “A beautiful, scrumptious, _sleeeepy_ boy.” 

Curling your lip in disgust, you watch the way he taps a beat out with his red-bottom Louboutins on the bed frame. Who the fuck wears Louboutins and a suit at nine in the morning? Maybe Sadie was onto something, maybe he has just come from a night out. 

“He looks like someone who’d know where to get ketamine.” 

“Aren’t _you_ someone who knows where to get ketamine?” Sadie raises an eyebrow at you and you wave her away. 

“That’s different. I’m a medical doctor.” 

The lab grows quiet as you both watch Mr. Wayne gracefully slide from the bed and saunter over to the observation window. When he raps on the glass between the two of you, you both jump. He points to his Reverso watch before turning lazily to sit at the desk in the room. 

“I think he wants us to go talk to him?” Sadie swallows. 

“No shit, Sherlock.” You roll your eyes. 

She stays rooted to her chair, watching him with big, worried eyes. Then she looks down at her phone. 

“Fucking Ryan!” She groans, “Of all the days for him to not be reliable!” 

Chewing on the inside of your cheeks, you debate on telling Sadie what you know… or what you are pretty sure you know about Ryan, ultimately deciding against it. It would be best to wait until you have some solid-sounding evidence to back your assumptions up with. 

“Can you go talk to him?” she snivels. “He was such a dick to me earlier. I’m not sure I can take it again at the moment. I didn’t sleep well last night.” 

Watching your friend massage her temples, you take pity. You’re feeling so invincible after last night that without a second thought, or even a pep talk, you march yourself right into a room with arguably the most powerful man in Gotham and start to introduce yourself. 

In a classic douche-bag move, Bruce Wayne holds a finger up to you without looking away from his phone. He’s the type of man who always needs the upper hand and this is all a ruse, a maneuver to make sure you know who’s time is most valuable here. (Spoiler alert: it’s not yours.) 

With an audible scoff you cross your arms across your chest and glower at his profile - refusing to let yourself acknowledge what a handsome profile it is. 

“I’m sorry about that, doctor…,” As he looks up at you, his non-apology trails off and something strange happens. The cocky confidence that is seeping out of his every pore, trying to smother yours, dissolves. 

It’s just for a fraction of a second, a blip as he takes you in. His eyes flash with something dark, something that makes a chill run up your spine. 

Then, as quick as it appears, it’s gone. Though he’s not quite as smothering as he was before. He directs the full force of his charming smile in your direction, “I’m sorry, doctor, but have we _met_?” 

You shake your head. 

“Are you sure?” He steps closer, putting his phone in his jacket pocket, “You look so… familiar. I just can’t quite put my…,” placing the knuckle of his index finger under your chin he tilts your head up your you’re looking into his eyes, “ _finger_ on it.” 

_Ugh._

Stepping back, safely away from his reach, you attempt to reestablish your footing. The whole scenario is so unprofessional and you want to tell him so, but you also know Sadie will never forgive you if the project loses such an amazing funding potential. Therein lies the power of rich men. It makes you sick. Bruce Wayne makes you sick. 

As if he heard your thoughts, he flinches and flashes you what you swear is an authentic look of apology before pulling down the mask of arrogance once again. 

While clearing your throat, you put on your own mask of stone-cold-professionalism, “My colleague Dr. Jones, the neuroscientist you’ve been talking to today - she tells me that you have expressed some interest in the research we’re doing here.” 

Mr. Wayne nods and takes a seat on the bed, gesturing for you to take the desk chair, as if this is _his_ lab, not yours. But you take the seat anyway, reminding yourself to play nice. 

“Dr. Jones is correct, I am _very_ interested in the research you and colleagues are doing. In particular, I’m interested in investing in the potential this treatment could have for psychiatric patients - which is why I’m desperate to talk to the psychiatrist on your team, Dr. Ryan Campbell.” 

You frown, “I assure you, Mr. Wayne, Sadie - er, Dr. Jones - and I are more than capable of answering any questions you may have on the subject. Dr. Campbell is…,” you stare at the swirls of the faux hardwood laminate flooring, trying to think of the best excuse to make for Ryan. 

“A difficult man to find.” Bruce Wayne finishes for you. 

“I’m not sure if you’re aware but it _is_ Sunday morning, Mr. Wayne,” you point out, “We don’t usually work on Sunday morning.” 

“I just realized where I know you from,” his eyes flash again and he sits a little straighter, “You were in my dream last night.” 

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, internally thanking Morpheus and his outstanding skills in bed for your patience today. “Listen, Mr. Wayne, I speak for all of us when I say how incredibly excited we are to hear that you’re interested in funding our research. So excited we got up _early_ on a Sunday morning to come and speak with you. I apologize for Mr. Campbell’s absence but -,” 

“Did you see this?” he interrupts you by turning up the volume on a television behind your head. His rudeness and entitlement leave you slack jawed and appalled, but when you hear the anchor say ‘ _Arkham Asylum_ ,’ you turn to watch.

Across the bottom of the screen the scroll reads ‘ _Escape from Arkham Asylum. Investigators suspect inside help._ ’ A beautiful, young news reporter stands at the ominous iron gates that lead to the institution and says into her microphone, “...the escape was orchestrated sometime last night. Our sources inform us that at least ten inmates are missing.” 

‘ _Investigators suspect inside help_ ’? 

Ryan was late at work last night. At Arkham. Gabe’s angry whispers to Mindy in the hallway replay in your head, ‘ _Are you fucking serious? What the hell happens now?_ ’ You remember Ryan’s stoic face outside his house, the chilly self-assured calm of a psychopath. 

It was Ryan who helped them escape, you’re sure of it. But why? 

The reporter continues, “Among the list of the missing, the former psychologist and professor at Gotham University, Jonathan Crane.” 

“Wait. Was that the guy who called himself Scarecrow?” When you don’t hear an answer, you turn to see that Bruce Wayne is gone. On the notepad at the desk is scrawled a note in scratchy masculine handwriting, beneath a phone number: 

_Call me as soon as you get a hold of Ryan Campbell.  
B. Wayne_

When you go back to the lab to ask if Sadie saw the man leave, you see she’s sound asleep with her head on the desk. You are going to wake her up, but she looks so peaceful that you can’t bear it. So after throwing a spare blanket from the lab over her shoulders and writing her a note ( _so many notes today!_ ) you leave the University in search of Ryan. 

After hailing a cab and giving them his address, you call him. It goes straight to voicemail. 

The whole way to his house you pick at your bottom lip, fretting over how you’re going to play it. 

Ryan won’t know that you know he broke out the patients from Arkham. Maybe if you come to him on the pretense of being the concerned coworker who has been trying to get a hold of him this morning, he’ll confess? Or maybe you should just go home and wait for more instructions from Morpheus? 

You sigh and look down at your phone, wishing you could send Morpheus a text - ask him for his advice. 

The distinct skin-prickling sensation of being watched washes over you and when you look back up, you see that the cab driver is peering at you intently from the rearview mirror. An uncomfortable and vulnerable chill makes the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. 

Clearing your throat, you look out the window for the rest of the drive, wondering if he can hear how hard your heart has started to beat. As soon as the cab stops in front of Ryan’s you toss him more than enough money, mumble a quick thanks without making eye contact, and get out of there as fast as you can. 

As soon as he drives away, you force yourself to shake it off. 

_I’m being paranoid. This whole thing with Ryan is making me paranoid. No one is watching me._

Peering up at the study window that you were hanging out of the night before, you frown and shake your head at how close the ledge appears to the gable you were trying to reach. It appears so attainable from this angle. Such a tease. 

There’s some rustling coming from inside the house after you knock on the front door and you pause, tilting your head closer, trying to make out the noises. When the doorknob starts to turn, you straighten and put on an innocent smile. 

Mindy looks like absolute shit. You didn’t think it was possible, and if you weren’t so worried about Ryan, you might relish in it. She looks like she needs a good night sleep and a cold compress to her sinuses. Her face is the type of swollen that only occurs after intense, prolonged sobbing or anaphylaxis - and since her breathing appears normal you rule out the former. 

You can’t be sure due to the puffiness around her eyes, but you think she arches an impatient eyebrow at you.

“ _Heeeey_ …,” you start in a cautious, sympathetic voice. This only seems to raise her hackles. You’re not sure what you did, but you have the distinct impression that at some point within the past twenty-four hours Mindy has decided she doesn't like you. 

“Are you here for your stuff?” Her voice is testy and has the tell-tale raspy quality of laryngitis, most likely brought on by, again, prolonged and intense sobbing. 

“Uh….,” _My stuff?_

Without further explanation, she turns and walks further into the house, leaving the door open. You step tentatively inside. The house is dark, gloomy, and you rub your arms to tame the goosebumps. 

Mindy pads back toward you from somewhere inside the house, barefoot and holding your coat and heels. 

“Yes! My stuff!” You reach for it. 

Your night with Morpheus made you completely forget what you were wearing to the party, much less what you were wearing (or _not_ wearing) when you left. 

“I was wondering how you got home without them,” Mindy says, with a tone of unconvincing concern. She pressed forward, edging you out of the house. 

“While I’m here,” you start before you lose your confidence, “Is Ryan around? We have had a really... prestigious source of potential funding reach out to us, and -,” 

“Bruce Wayne?” 

You raise your eyebrows in shock at her, “Well. Yeah… how did you-,” 

“He came by this morning looking for him.” She sounds bored or irritated or both. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: I haven’t seen Ryan since last night and I don’t expect to hear from him anytime soon. Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re going through a sort of… family crisis and would really appreciate it if you respect our privacy.” 

With this she lightly pushes you onto the front step and slams the door in your face leaving you staring dumbfounded at the small ‘ _No Solicitors_ ’ plaque beneath the peephole. 

“Well that was weird.” You say under your breath as you walk down the steps and around the corner. 

You’ll have to walk a block or two before you get to a street busy enough to hail a cab back home. You’re not even a block away when someone comes up behind you and grabs your arm. In your already agitated state, you jump while making a pathetic yelping sound. 

But it’s only Gabe. 

“Hey! I’m glad I caught you.” He’s breathing hard and his skin is flushed, he must’ve been sprinting, “I thought I heard you at Mindy and Ryan’s and I wanted to talk to you, to apologize to you for last night.” 

He looks down and rubs the back of his neck. This is when you notice, he _also_ looks awful. While his face isn’t swollen like Mindy’s, he’s got dark circles under his eyes and looks like he could use a week of sleep. 

_Christ! Did anyone in Gotham besides me get any sleep last night?_

You’re torn between not wanting to lead Gabe on and wanting to know more about what’s going on with Ryan or where he might be. You think back to jealous Morpheus and decide it would be best for everyone to just let him off the hook. 

“Thanks Gabe, apology accepted.” Reaching out to give him a friendly pat on his shoulder. 

When he looks up at you his pale blue eyes are watery and wide like a puppy dog’s. It makes your heart clench. Whatever Ryan has got him caught up in, it’s clearly tearing him up. 

“Heading home?” 

You nod, “I need to pick up my dog from my neighbor’s.” 

He hesitates, trying to decide whether or not to say something and when you turn to leave, it comes out in a rush, “I don’t want this to sound too forward, but can I share a cab with you? I need to get out of there and it would be nice to share a space with someone I know.” When he says _there_ he cocks his head back in the direction of the Campbell’s house. 

Remembering the creepy cab driver leering at you through the rearview mirror, you shrug and say, “Sure. It’s always nice to have company.” 

The atmosphere in the back of the cab becomes thick with the unspoken tension of what is happening (or in your case _not_ happening) between you and Gabe. It makes you feel claustrophobic and you think you should’ve told him not to come. 

Not helping matters, _this_ cab driver also seems a bit too interested in you. He keeps glancing at you from the rearview mirror. 

If you could teleport, like Morpheus, you’d be safe at home right now. Away from all the eyes. 

“Do you believe in signs?” Gabe finally breaks the silence. 

“Absolutely not.” 

There’s a pause and you finally turn away from the window to look at him. He’s uncomfortable and seeing such a strong, attractive man uncomfortable raises some sort of instinctual alarm in you. 

“Well, I do. I had one of the worst nights of my life last night. I don’t want to get into it, especially since you work with my brother, but we had a… falling out.” You’re not sure you’ve ever listened to someone so intently before. You’re analyzing his every microexpression and studying body language for any clue about what Ryan is up to. 

“Anyway,” Gabe sighs, tucking his hair behind his ears and turning to face you completely, leaning his back against the door, “As I was falling asleep last night, I prayed. I’ve never been particularly religious and I’ve never really done it before, but I prayed for an answer. For a sign. For _anything_ that would help me make sense of all of this. Then I had a dream and in the dream I felt… something I’ve never felt before. It was this... passion and bliss and the most intense love I’ve ever felt.” 

Up to this point, his eyes unfocused, directed out the window behind you. All at once, he snaps them to yours and his cheeks and the bridge of his nose turn pink. “And it was for _you_.” 

_Um… what?!_

You sit up straighter and he leans forward to grab your hands, you try to snatch them away but he squeezes them tighter. 

“I promise I’m not usually this forward, but after the night I had…,” though you can tell he’s sincerely apologetic, you still want to get out of the cab as soon as humanly possible, “In this dream, I was with you and it felt so… right. I’m positive it was the sign I was praying for. That _you_ were the sign I was praying for.” 

Shaking your head as rapidly as you can you beg him to let go of you and with a wounded expression he does as you ask. Then you lean forward and ask the cab driver to pull over. You know from experience that nothing is scarier than a man with a wounded ego and you are about to obliterate this poor man’s ego and you’ll need to be able to flee before the backlash. 

“I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time right now, Gabe.” Your voice is anything but sorry. It’s firm. You don’t want to leave any room for doubt. “But I need you to know that I’m not the answer to your problems. Whatever we had between us, it was a fleeting moment that’s over now. I know now, due to circumstances in my personal life, that I am not _ever_ going to enter into any sort of romantic relationship with you. This is not because of any defect of yours, you are very attractive and I’m sure you will have no trouble finding a more… willing participant for you to exert this energy onto. Goodbye, Gabe. Please do not follow me.” 

And with that you exit the cab like a gazelle escaping a lion’s den. You’re in a daze, but you keep moving forward, refusing to look back.

_What the fuck is happening?_

You start at the beginning of the day: all the people staring at you. You’d assumed it was just your disgustingly cheery demeanor drawing their attention. Then there was the homeless guy, the one who shouted about you being the ‘woman of his dreams,’ and the barista who spilled the milk upon seeing you. After that, there was Bruce Wayne, who’d claimed he had a dream about you. Then the cab drivers who kept ogling you through the rearview mirrors. And now Gabe. 

Something Ms. Lizzie had said the night she was over doing puzzles with you and Sadie comes to mind. She’d said Sadie and her must’ve been having sad dreams because of what Morpheus was feeling. She’d said that this was the reason the King of Dreams shouldn’t feel strong emotions, because they’d transfer to the mortals in The Dreaming. 

Could it be possible that whatever he was feeling for you last night transferred to anyone who was in The Dreaming at the same time? Additionally, is it possible that those emotions had been tied to your face? Did everyone who dreamt last night dream of _you_? Did they dream not only what Morpheus felt, but what he saw? 

You decide to perform an impromptu experiment of sorts. You stop and count how many people passing give you lingering looks. Out of the ten individuals that passed you in the thirty seconds you are standing near the curb of the sidewalk, pretending to be pulling something up on your phone, eight of them look at you for an uncomfortable amount of time. This appears to be a significant amount to you. Too significant to be by chance. 

_Caw! Caw!_

The screeching sound comes from the tree above you, making you jump. (God, you’ve been jumpy today.) You look up to see a raven. Matthew. He has something in his claw. 

Beautiful handwriting on a neon green background. The note from this morning. 

_You have opened the box, Pandora. Tread lightly._

And this is when you start to panic.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing seems odd about what’s happening when your brain is under the spell of dreams.

During your first year of medical school, you took a stress management course. The professor taught you that in times of high stress, when you feel yourself starting to panic, it helps to list out your current stressors. This makes your intangible emotion seem more tangible and often helps in planning proactive ways to reduce your stress.

So, this is what you do. 

After you combo speedwalk-jog the last block and a half to your apartment complex. After you take the shortcut down the back alley and after you end up having to stop and press yourself against the cool bricks of the building to hyperventilate. 

After all of this, you compile a list of your current stressors.

  * Your research needs funding.
  * Getting your research funded by Bruce Wayne requires Ryan. 
  * Ryan has assisted in the escape of at least ten inmates from Arkham and is now M.I.A. 
  * In whatever he’s doing, Ryan has attracted the attention and potential wrath of the Lord of Dreams. 
  * Your research may be completely irrelevant because said Lord of Dreams' existence brings into question everything you’ve been studying for the past six years about how the brain in sleep works.
  * Not only did you have sex with the Lord of Dreams, the act of having sex with him may have broken some code you don’t understand. And now a bunch of strangers seem to know you from their dreams. 
  * You may or may not be falling in love with a non-mortal, completely unavailable embodiment of fantasy. 
  * On top of all of this, you’re a second year neurology resident working your ass off sixty hour weeks in order to land the sleep medicine fellowship of your dreams (no pun intended). 



For the first time, making a list of your stressors _doesn’t_ help. Mainly because there’s nothing on the list you can control. Perhaps you could stop doing research and while you’re at it just ghost on your training, quit your residency, abandon your life goals - murder your ambition and destroy the evidence. 

No. That’s not an option. 

“Hey. Are you okay?” The voice is smooth and surprisingly sweet coming from a young woman who looks like she’s just gotten off a shift at Hot Topic.

She’s petite, her delicate features hiding behind a mountain of teased inky hair. She wears liquid eyeliner, and flawlessly applied matte black lipstick, both of which contrast with her anemic skin to give it an ethereal silvery quality. Her clothing consists of tight pants, a motorcycle jacket, and steel-toed boots with clunky silver buckles all in the same worn black leather. 

When she reaches out to put a comforting hand on your shoulder, her jacket opens to reveal a heavy silver cross with a loop at the top hanging on a chain around her neck. It glints in the late morning sun. 

“Isn’t that some sort of Egyptian symbol?” You sniff and wipe away some tears. You hadn’t realized until this moment that you were crying. 

“Oh, yeah!” She looks down at her chest, “It’s an ankh, it’s the symbol for ‘life’ in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Most people I meet have no idea what it is or where it’s from.” She sounds impressed. 

“I enjoy learning about etymology and sometimes Egyptian hieroglyphics come up. But I am by no means an expert,” You add in a hurry not wanting to oversell your mild interest as a legitimate skill. 

The woman studies you with open curiosity. 

“Let me guess,” you hear the self-pity in your voice, “You had a dream about me?” 

Her smile is sad and soft with earnest sympathy, “No, doctor, I didn’t dream of you. I don’t dream.” 

Now it’s you who is looking at her with open curiosity and a little shock. The woman’s eyes, you realize, are unnaturally dark - black irises you’ve only seen once before. 

“Are you one of The Endless?” 

“Death.” She announces proudly and holds her hand out for you to shake.

“Death?” You’re skeptical. While you knew from Dream and Desire that Death was a woman, you pictured more of a crone. Not a youthful, adorable goth-girl. 

She nods and when you eye her hand with suspicion and slight terror she assures you, “Oh. I’m not here for you, if that’s what you’re wondering. I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to see the woman who has bewitched the most stoic of my siblings.” 

Death says this without any malice, and you take her hand giving it a shake while arching an eyebrow at her. “Bewitched? That’s a bit of a strong word for it.” 

“It’s really not. If you knew how duty bound Morpheus usually is, you’d know that the way he acts around you is… pretty abnormal for him.” 

The thought of _you_ making _Dream_ the **abnormal** one instead of the other way around makes you smile a private, self-satisfied smile. 

“Although...,” Death leans casually against the wall next to you and picks at the black polish on her thumbnail, “This did happen once before.” 

“What happened?” You hate the vicious jealousy that surges through you. You try to control it, but it’s so deep and instinctual and independent of any rational thought. It’s as if your bone marrow is glowing green with envy. 

_The man is older than time for fuck’s sake! Of course he’s going to have an ex here or there._

“Geez! It was _so_ long ago… a few millennia now. I almost forgot about it. She was a queen, if I remember correctly, and she was ruling in an area around The Cradle of Life. We were so young and dumb back then. Desire thought it would be fun to play a trick on Dream, to loosen him up a bit. Anyway, he placed this queen in his path and they both became completely infatuated with each other. It ended quite tragically…,” Death says with a sense of finality that you don’t dare question, even though you’ve never wanted to know the details of a story more in your life. 

“Is that what Desire did to me? Is whatever it is between us an illusion? A trick played on us by Desire?” 

Death frowns thoughtfully, then sighs and shakes her head, “No. Desire, the feeling, not my sibling, is only part of what Dream feels for you. Although I do think Desire gave Morpheus a shove in realizing how he feels about you when they sent you off in the direction of that mortal man. People often confuse the two, desire and affection - desire and love. Though sometimes they are intermingled, they’re not the same.” 

“You think that’s what this is? What he feels for me?” 

“Ever since he came out of captivity, my brother has changed. He had over seventy years to think about his past, his future, and his role in this existence. And I think because of that he was more open than he’s ever been when you came along.” 

Perhaps it’s egotistical of you, but you’re not sure you like the idea of just being a chance encounter at the right time, right place. She makes it sound like it could have been anyone. Maybe if he’d picked Sadie to give the token to, it would’ve been her that half of Gotham dreamed about last night instead of you.

As if reading your mind, Death says, “You are… how do I put this? You’re exactly the type of mortal who would be the undoing of Morpheus.” 

You smile a wry smile, “That’s not what Desire said.” 

Death rolls her eyes and laughs, “Desire puts too much emphasis on the physical. It’s their nature I suppose. But what Desire doesn’t realize is, while Morpehus does feel lust it’s not the only thing that draws him to you. He has formed a true attachment to you I think.” 

“But what sort of future is there for a mortal and one of you?” You don’t mean to sound as derogatory as you do when you say ‘ _one of you_.’ 

Fortunately, Death doesn’t seem offended. In truth, you don’t think you could offend Death if you tried. She has the level-headed unshakable self-possession you’d expect from a timeless being. 

She shrugs and pushes off the wall, “That’s not for me to decide. That’s between you, Morpheus, and Destiny.” 

“Wait!” You call after her as she starts to walk out of the alley. She stops and turns halfway toward you, “Why do you wear the symbol for life?” 

Her responding smile is charmed, “Desire told me you’re a curious one. Some think it’s for the afterlife.” 

“Is it?” 

“I like to think it’s because Life and Death are inexorably linked in a continuum. One cannot exist without the other. You _could_ argue that Life and Death - we’re one in the same.” 

“Are you?” 

But she’s gone.   
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
 _Do they always have to make the joker so terrifying?_ You think as the black leather-gloved hand lays out the card. 

In this particular deck the clown is mirrored halfway down his torso with one face holding a tragedy mask from his face, while the jester smiles a crazed smile. The other side, the side closest to you, is holding a comedy mask while the man frowns, diamond tears drawn running down his face. 

Someone should really check on the illustrators of joker cards. Are they okay? Do they need therapy? Maybe they could form a support group? 

“Jokers are wild,” a modulated voice reminds the table from behind his mask. 

The wookie sitting across from you bellows in agreement. If jokers are wild, you have five of a kind - the highest hand in Texas Holdem. You try to mask your excitement, but you’ve always had a bad poker face, so you try your best to avoid the eyes of the others at the table: Kylo Ren, Baby Yoda, and Chewbaca. 

This is normal. You always play poker with _Star Wars_ characters on… 

_Wait. What day is it?_

_What was I doing before this?_

_When did I get here?_

In a flurry of wind and feathers, a jurassic-sized raven whirls into the smoky gambling den right after Kylo Ren orders the table to, “Place their bets.” 

While the table is distracted by the newcomer, Baby Yoda reaches his adorable little hand out and steals some of the credits on the table. The little cheat. 

Matthew approaches you, his large size makes moving around the cramped space awkward. He accidentally swipes a whole shelf of liquor bottles onto the floor with his long tail feathers, resulting in a cringe-worthy crash, making Kylo Ren growl. 

“Hey Matthew,” you greet him without looking away from the stack of chips you place in the middle of the green felt-lined table. You say this casually, as if this is a completely normal situation you’re in - playing Texas Holdem with fictional characters with a giant talking raven coming to speak to you. And in this moment, it truly _feels_ ordinary. Nothing seems odd about what’s happening when your brain is under the spell of dreams. 

“The Lord of Dreams has sent me to retrieve you, doctor.” 

Holding up a finger to the raven, you ask if everyone has placed their bets. The Supreme Leader has put his lightsaber in the pot. You _want_ that lightsaber. It’s your complete focus. 

“It would be best to not make him wait.” Matthew is anxious. 

“This won't be long.” You assure him. 

And it isn’t. 

With the swagger befitting a card shark in a seventies Western movie, you lay out your hand and collect your well-earned winnings from the table. 

“Next time, boys!” You call over your shoulder as you hook the lightsaber into your waistband and climb up onto Matthew’s back, as comfortably as if you did this every weekend. If you were wearing cowboy boots with spurs you might dig them into the poor bird with a ‘ _H’ya!_ ’ and ride into the sunset. 

As Matthew takes off, you grip handfuls of his silky feathers to stabilize yourself. Turns out it’s not as easy or comfortable to ride a giant raven as you thought. Though, to be fair, it’s not as if it is a scenario you’d spent much time pondering. 

While the bird rises into the atmosphere, your mind starts to clear. 

It’s as if when you’re in standard REM, you’re operating in a dark old attic full of cobwebs, the air thick with dust. But the closer you get to Dream’s citadel, the clearer the attic becomes. The curtains are drawn back to let in the light, the windows are opened to let out the dust, and the cobwebs are cleared away. 

By the time Matthew is landing in the big front doors, you remember that you were watching the _Star Wars_ marathon on the SciFi channel with Fezzik. You had a belly full of the yellow curry you’d ordered in (deciding you had enough of the outside world for the day) and were waiting for Morpheus to show up, as promised. But your big dog was sprawled out on you like a bony, warm weighted blanket and you were so comfortable, you must have drifted off. 

Morpheus throws open the heavy doors and before you can properly wax poetic at the sight of him in all his robed regal glory, he’s at your side helping you off of Matthew. His strong hands grip your waist and he pulls you against him as you slide off, embracing you as if you’ve been separated for years instead of hours. 

Though his behavior sets off several alarms in your head, you don’t want to ruin the moment with questions just yet. You want to live here in his arms with your cheek pressed against the small triangle of sternum exposed between the folds of his impossibly soft robes. 

“Thank you, Matthew.” He dismisses the bird and pulls away, running one of his arms down yours until your fingers intertwine. 

_Christ he’s beautiful._ You think as you watch him bring your hand to his lips, placing a tender kiss on each of your fingers with his silken, full lips. But then you become aware of the worried crease between his thick brows. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Everything, _eratos_.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What would that entail? I have work in the morning…,”

Morpheus has a bedroom. 

Why? 

You’re not sure since you know he doesn’t sleep. But it is luxurious and you experience the satisfying feeling of something being exactly as you’d imagine it to be. Because if someone were to tell you to picture Morpheus’ bedroom, it would be exactly this. 

In the same style as the rest of the citadel its architecture is medieval gothic and if you were to name the palate, you’d call it Shades of the Night Sky. Black velvet drapes the canopy of the vast bed, an off-white bedspread covers the mattress and is is made from a material so fine it shimmers like stars, and the ancient rug spread out in the center of the room is a swirling galaxy of green, pale blue, and white threads on a navy background. 

An iron, candle lit chandelier hanging from the vaulted oak ceiling casts the room in a transcendental penumbral glow, transforming the severe angles of Morpheus’ face into a contrast of warm illumination and cold shadow. 

Keeping a firm grasp on your hand, he leads you to one of the tufted sofas and sits with you. His hands haven’t left you since you’ve arrived, which only increases the volume of the alarms in your head.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” This time you don’t ask.

In what you’re beginning to recognize as a true hallmark of one of The Endless, instead of answering your question directly, Morpheus launches into an explanation. 

“Early on in my existence, I developed an awareness of the vulnerability in keeping all my power intact. If someone wished to steal it and had the devices to do so, they could potentially suck it out of me in one fell swoop. Thus, I divided up the majority of my power into three objects: a bag of sand, the dreamstone, and my helm.” 

“Helm?” 

“Helmet.” 

You think back to the mask he held on his lap the first time you saw him, “Oh! The freaky one that looks like the exoskeleton head of a giant fly.”

“I made it from the bones of an ancient god that I defeated in battle.” Dream explains as plainly as if he were telling you his recipe for pecan pie (not that he has one, but the thought of him in an apron baking pies amuses you). 

“Regardless,” he continues, “While I was with you last night, someone broke into the citadel and stole my helm.”

Straightening your spine and twisting your body to face Dream full-on you ask, “Ryan?” 

“I believe so.”

 _Fuck._

You tell Morpheus about the breakout from Arkham and about Scarecrow, “Do you think Ryan might be working for him?” 

He considers this for a moment, eyes fixated on your hands entwined on your lap. Compared to his large colorless hands, yours seem delicate and vibrant.

“I imagine someone who is preoccupied with catalyzing fear, such as Crane, would relish having the power of nightmare at his disposal. Whoever has taken possession of my helm, whether it is Crane or Campbell, it will only be a matter of time before they reveal themselves. This is the nature of mortals. Those who seek power cannot keep it hidden from the world, their egos wont allow it. I only hope they do not hurt too many before they cause a stir.” 

While you weren’t living in Gotham during the time of Dr. Crane’s reign of terror, you can vaguely recall hearing something of it on the news. The man is sick, finding joy in torturing people with their own worst fears - to the point of driving his victims insane or in some cases driving them to take their own lives. 

You shudder at the thought of what he would do given the power to conjure nightmares. “I’ll find him. If I can find Ryan I’m sure I can find -,” 

Morpheus is shaking his head, a chilling expression of fury on his already harsh features, “Absolutely not. I will not allow you to pursue Johnathan Crane unprotected.” 

Bristling at his patronizing orders, you reclaim your hand from his and scoot away, “Excuse me? You won’t ‘ _allow_ ’ it? Seriously?” 

“I cannot protect you and my realm simultaneously.” He glowers. 

“As soon as I find him, I’ll call the police.” You reason. 

A short scathing laugh escapes Morpheus’ throat, “The authorities in Gotham are useless. If I remember correctly it was The Batman who was the one who finally took care of Crane in the first place.” 

“Well the police will have to work, I don’t exactly have ‘ _The Batman_ ’s’ phone number now do I?” You snap. 

Morpheus changes tactics. He softens and leans toward you, gathering you up in his long arms and holding you against him until you begin to defrost. 

How can you be the no-nonsense, self-reliant, feminist version of yourself when you adore the way he makes you feel in this moment? So safe, so cozy, like nothing bad or evil in the world can touch you as long as you’re here. 

He’s your kryptonite all right. He has the uncanny ability to take you from outraged-riot-girl to soft-sex-kitten in 0.5 seconds. 

You shift out of his arms and crawl up on his lap, wrapping your legs around his hips. Holding his face in your hands, you gaze down at him. His eyes are large and round, full of the universe, full of wonder. It’s as if he’s laying himself completely bare underneath your touch. 

“How can someone as powerful as you be so… vulnerable right now?” You ask, tilting your head to slide your lips against his. 

Sighing into your mouth he whispers, “You make me vulnerable. You scare me.” 

“Me?” You pull back, shocked by his response, “But I’m nothing. A mere mortal. A blip. A nanosecond to your eternity. How could _**I**_ scare _**you**_?” 

“The strength of the emotions you create in me,” he grabs your right hand and slides it to rest, over his heart. You feel it pounding away beneath your palm, “ _This_ is what terrifies me.” 

Your stomach drops and tightens low between your thighs and you want nothing more than to dive into Morpheus like he’s Scrooge’s Christmas Day feast and you’re a starving Tiny Tim. You ache to feel him inside of you again and since you’re on his lap, you can feel the evidence that he is on the exact same page you are. 

_However_ , before you let yourself get carried away, you force yourself to ask him about being recognized. You tell him about the barista, about Bruce Wayne, and about Gabe. With each word that comes out of your mouth his jaw muscle tightens, so by the time you’re done you’re worried he’s going to break a molar. 

“This is what I was concerned about. I need you here. I need you safe. This is the only place you will be safe.” He sounds unhinged and paranoid and he grips your waist as if he’s expecting you to flee. 

With a crease in your brow you put your hand to your chest and point out, “... but I _am_ here?” 

“No, _eratos_. The _dream_ you is here - a projection… an imprint of your being if you will. Your _body_ is on Earth, on your couch. I need _all_ of you here in order to properly keep you safe.” 

“What would that entail? I have work in the morning…,” 

His expression is incredulous and even you have to admit you felt stupid saying it. But it’s true. You can’t just give up your life to move into the citadel of the guy you’ve fucked _once_ and that exists on some sort of metaphysical plane. 

“You once told me that love for an ambitious woman was a fairytale. Do you remember that?” 

You nod thinking back to your early days in The Dreaming, in the library. But you start to pull back, weary of where he is going with this. 

Morpheus flexes his fingers on your back, clutching you closer. “I love you and will love you in ways mortal men cannot.” 

You suck in a shaky breath. He lets go with one of his hands to brush the hair out of your face and presses his forehead to yours.

“Come here. Let me love you for eternity. Rule The Dreaming with me by my side as my queen.” His voice is low, laced with desperation and agony. It ignites two of your instincts at once. You want to soothe him in any humanly way possible and at the same time you want to run. You want to both advance _and_ retreat. 

“What about Fezzik? What about my family? What about… _my whole life_?” 

“I could make them for you here. I could give you everything you want. You would never be lonely or wish for anything. I promise, _eratos_ , my lovely one, my beloved.” 

“But… they wouldn’t _really_ be them. They’d be hollow, manufactured representations of them while the real ones lived their lives without me on Earth.” As you speak you’re withdrawing from him, both physically and emotionally, and your heart is starting to crack. You put your feet on the ground and rise, prying your body from his and taking a step back. 

“You could visit them, their real consciousnesses, here when they visit The Dreaming at night.” His arms reach out for you, but you stumble out of his grasp. 

The cracks in your heart start to branch and deepen and the pressure in your thoracic cavity is beginning to feel unbearable. “No.” You shake your head as he stands and steps toward you. 

His arms fall, his lips are turned down. He becomes the picture of defeat, “ _Please_ …,” He begs. 

Having to choose between Morpheus and everything else you hold dear, “This is a nightmare. Wake me up from this nightmare.” 

“ _Please_.” 

You’re not sure if it’s you or Dream who says it, but it’s ringing in your ears as you jolt awake on your couch, waking Fezzik in the process. 

Someone is pounding on your door. 

Glancing at the clock below the television - which is currently displaying the epic battle of Crait from _The Last Jedi_ \- you see that it’s just after ten. You must’ve dozed off quite early in the evening. 

The pounding on the door ceases and you sit up, clutching your chest. It feels like someone has Temple-of-Doom’d your heart, as if they’ve reached in, dug it out with their bare hands, and taken a bite of it. 

How could Morpheus ask you to give up _everything_ you know for him? Doesn’t he know how damaging a request like that is? Offering up a platter full of, quite literally, all your wildest dreams at the small, small price of your entire mortal life. 

Doesn’t he know how badly you want to take his offer? 

Doesn’t he know that you could _never_ take his offer? 

“ _Ugh! Fuck him!_ ” You shout into your empty apartment, causing Fezzik to jerk forward nervously and wet your whole face in one swipe of his huge concerned tongue. 

The pounding on the door picks up again. 

“Coming!” You growl, pushing Fezzik off of you and striding to swing the door open, wondering about the poor sap on the other side who is about to be the sole outlet to your wrath. 

It’s Ryan. 

Ryan is the poor sap. 

And he looks... terrible.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Gotham City will never fully be asleep, it’s drowsy at this hour.

“Ryan?” You hope your fear is masked by your surprise. 

You’ve never seen your colleague so disheveled. He’s outfitted in a well-worn hoodie and sweats, his auburn hair is unkempt, with a stubborn cowlick sticking straight out over his ear on one side. Behind his tortoise-shell glasses, his eyes are red rimmed, watery, and for the first time you notice they are the exact same shade of frosty blue as his brother’s. 

In your doorway is the picture of a broken man, a stark contrast to the cold calculated Ryan from outside the dinner party, which has been in your memory as his place-holder. 

“Hey...,” his voice cracks on the greeting. 

You’re speechless and being pulled in two different directions. Your brain is telling you to keep your defenses up, to keep him at a distance. But your heart clenches with sympathy and you have an urge to gather him up into a warm embrace. 

Because, although Ryan and you aren’t the best of friends - you’ve worked with him for two years now. In that time, you’ve shared the occasional inside joke, and whenever Sadie is being particularly eccentric, you could always count on him to share a private _Oy-vey!_ look with you. 

Up until very recently, the only thing you felt about Ryan was a fondness and deep respect. 

He shuffles uncomfortably in the doorway and rubs the back of his neck, “Sorry it’s so late. I… I really need to talk to someone and I didn’t know where else to go. Do you mind if I come in for a minute?” 

“Uhm…,” you glance over your shoulder and look around the apartment, fighting against the social pressure you feel to fling the door open and invite him in without question. 

Fezzik is watching with mild curiosity from the couch, his chin perched on the armrest. You can’t depend on him to protect you if Ryan has nefarious intentions. But you notice the raven perched on your windowsill. 

_Matthew._

“Of course.” You flatten yourself against the door and spread your arm out in welcome. 

Ryan visibly relaxes and slumps in, heading directly to the couch. Fezzik shuffles over to the man and puts his head on his lap for scratches. 

In movies dogs always seem to know who the villains are, which you’ve always found odd because, as far as you know, the superior olfactory lobes of canines wouldn’t include being able to sense and judge moral character. Still, your dog’s ease with Ryan makes a tiny bit of the tension in your shoulders release. 

“I was just about to open a bottle of wine.” You call over to him as you get the bottle of riesling from the fridge and pull out two wine glasses, “Would you like some?” 

“God, yes.” 

After you open the wine, you slip the corkscrew in your pocket. Then you walk over and set the bottle and two glasses on the coffee table. Before you can even sit down on the opposite end of the couch, he’s poured himself a glass and is downing it like it’s the elixir of life. 

“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you…,” 

He nods and swallows, “I know. I’m sorry, I’ll explain everything.” 

“You… will?” This takes you off guard. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to play out, is it? No interrogation? No speeches? No threats? No showdown? No over-the-top dramatic moment where you reveal what you already know? 

Ryan nods and finishes off his glass and pours himself another. You’d gotten yourself a glass to pretend to sip, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care if you’re drinking, so you set it, untouched, on the table next to you. 

“I need to preface this with: I’m sorry…,” 

“Oh? For what?” 

_For releasing dangerous criminals from Arkham? For using our research for evil? For ruining the trust of your colleagues and family?_

“For Gabe.” 

_Did he just say he’s sorry for... **Gabe**?_ You’re stunned. 

He continues, “I could tell you were interested in him when he came to take me to dinner, and I used that to my advantage. You see, I’d just found out some stuff about him that I wasn’t ready to confront him with, and I just couldn’t go to dinner with him. So I pawned you off on him to get him off my back.” 

“Ryan,” you lean forward and emphatically ask, “What the actual _fuck_ are you talking about?” 

He sighs and finishes his second glass, “Let me rewind. There’s some things you need to know about me.” 

The alcohol is flushing his cheeks, and loosening his tongue. You’ve never seen him so open. Before he delves into it, you pull out your phone and send Sadie a text: _Ryan’s here_. 

At the exact same moment you press send, you see the raven take off and you exhale. At least if he murders you, there will be two people who know the last person you were with.

With that taken care of, you settle in and listen to Ryan tell you a story which is completely unexpected and that leaves you completely baffled - questioning everything. 

“For starters, I wasn’t born like this,” he gestures to himself, “When I was born, my parents named me Annie and I was anatomically female. From a very early age I knew something wasn’t right with my body, I didn’t feel comfortable in my skin. But it wasn’t until Gabe was born that I could put a name to it. I was a boy in the wrong body. Of course, I never said this out loud. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t dream of it. 

“Growing up, I was the ‘scrappy girl,’ the ‘tomboy.’ When puberty hit, I’d wear three or four sports bras to hide my breasts, and I’d keep my hair short. In middle school people just assumed I was gay - which… I guess _technically_ I was, but it felt wrong. Because inside I wasn’t a gay woman, I was a straight man. But you have to realize, being transgender wasn’t a thing back then. I mean, it existed - trans people existed - but they were hidden and ashamed. So I had no context for what was happening to me. I had this huge secret inside that was making me feel… crazy.” 

To say you’re dumbfounded by this piece of information would be an understatement. Your mouth is gaping and your eyes are huge. If he’d been telling you this at any other point, when you didn’t think he was going to tell you about his crimes or try to murder you, you’d have the decency to control your expression. You can tell this is something he doesn’t share with just anyone and it’s probably (definitely) insanely rude of you to be staring at him like he’s a sideshow.

Thankfully, he is so focused on telling this story, he barely seems to notice your reaction. 

“Gabe was the first person I told during my freshman year of high school. He was my best friend, my confidante, my biggest support. As the years went on and he got bigger he also became my protector, and my greatest advocate…,” 

Every assumption you and Morpheus have made about Ryan, it’s starting to unravel. What Ryan is telling you explains why Morpehus couldn’t locate a Ryan Campbell until ten years ago, up until then he was Annie Campbell. No wonder his subconscious was blocked by defense mechanisms, he’d lived most of his life with a huge secret. Then there was Gabe’s protectiveness of your probing questions about his brother’s past… 

It’s like you’ve been reacting to being shown a picture that you’re positive is someone’s ass and Ryan is pulling it back to show you it’s not an ass at all, but an innocent elbow joint. 

Ryan takes another long drink of his wine and then exhales a heavy breath, “...Which is why I was so shocked to find out he was fucking my wife.” 

“Hu - _Whaaat?_!” You choke on the bombshell. 

Your colleague proceeds to tell you that he’d suspected Mindy of having an affair and he’d discovered it was Gabe she was having the affair with _the day before your trip to the bar_. He explains that he went into a state of denial, pushing it down, refusing to believe that his biggest advocate, his best friend, his _brother_ would betray him so badly. 

Then, yesterday he’d found a positive pregnancy test in the trash. When he tells you this, your heart breaks for the second time in less than an hour. Because, under the assumption that Ryan was born a genotypic female (XX) as well as phenotypically, it would be physiologically impossible for him to contribute viable sperm to conceive a child with Mindy. 

In other words, the day of the dinner party Ryan had found out that his wife was likely pregnant with his brother’s child. 

“So, _that’s_ why you were late at work!” He wasn’t helping the inmates escape at all, he was coming to terms with his life slowly falling apart. 

When he smiles it looks more like a grimace. “I didn’t go into work at all yesterday. I met with a lawyer and then I went to see a movie. I went to my favorite restaurant and then at some point during the dinner party, I called Mindy and told her I knew everything. The strangest part was, I felt no emotion. I’d turned it all off to protect myself, it was as if I were removed from myself and watching someone else go through the motions.” 

The way Mindy looked at you when she walked in on you and Gabe about to kiss. The argument between Gabe and Mindy. The strange altercation you witnessed outside Ryan’s house, his stoic state. It all made sense. 

With this new prospective, you reexamine the characters. 

Ryan isn’t a villain. He hasn’t been messing with The Dreaming. He didn’t help the inmates from Arkham escape. Ryan is a broken man whose whole life has just been upended. 

Gabe is… well you don’t have his side of the story, but it’s not looking good for Gabe. Or Mindy for that matter. Gabe impregnates his brother’s wife and all the while is what… _pretending_ to be interested in getting set up by Mindy? What is that about? Mindy playing games? Or maybe he isn’t even that into Mindy because he was, afterall, easily convinced you are the love of his life, the _’sign he prayed for.’_

A wave of nausea rolls over you.

“ _Fuck._ Ryan, I don’t even know what to say. That’s horrible. People are horrible. The worst.” Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to deny Morpheus’ request to live in The Dreaming, away from people. 

As you’ve been taking in this new information, you’ve been focused on rubbing Fezzik’s back, raking your fingers through his coat. His fur the misty grey of a New England harbor in January. So it’s not until you look up that you notice Ryan is dozing. 

A feeling of affection for this man fills you and you decide to make sure he knows you’re his friend, that you’re here for him, that you’re someone he can trust. You decide you’ll make more of an effort to get out of your comfortable non-social bubble to let him in. 

As you drape a blanket on him and slide the wineglass out of his loose fingers, your phone starts to vibrate on your hip. It’s Sadie. 

“Hey!” her voice is so loud and bubbly you resist the urge to shush her, “Ryan’s there?” 

“Yes.” You whisper until you’re safely out into the hall, “But he’s _just_ fallen asleep. Man, Sadie, the poor guy has been through the ringer.” 

“I’m here, but the door is jammed. Will you come let me up?” 

After you hang up you take the stairs two at a time. You’re still raw from your encounter with Dream. But you start to feel a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe with your friends Sadie and Ryan to support you, it’ll be possible to let go of Dream and The Dreaming without being too damaged. Maybe… 

There’s no one at the front door. You walk down the steps and look up and down the sidewalk while hugging yourself against the cold night air. 

“Sadie?” You call. 

While Gotham City will never fully be asleep, it’s drowsy at this hour. The only people you see are a bearded man slumped against a wall in the distance and a couple shopping in the bodega across the street. 

_Where is she?_

Your breath is billowing out in front of you in dramatic cloudy plumes as you walk down to look around the corner and you’re regretting your decision to not throw on a jacket. Right as you’re pulling your phone out to call her you hear her call your name. 

She’s in the alley behind your building, the same alley you had a conversation with Death in. 

“The hell are you doing back here?” You grumble when you see her smiling face, “I’m freezing! Come on.” 

When you reach for her arm, she grabs your wrist tightly - too tightly - and you feel a pinch in your bicep. You look down. 

Sadie has plunged the needle of a syringe into your arm. 

“Ow! The fuck…?” 

She frowns, “Sorry… was that too deep? You know I’ve never been very good with needles.” 

Then the world begins to tilt and the last thing you see before it goes completely black is a giant head of a terrifying fly hovering over you. 

Morpheus’ helmet.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then he smiles and you see him - the villain hidden inside.

_What happens when you die?_

**Well that depends.**

_On what?_

**On what you believe.**

**The ancient Egyptians believed that after death, the soul traveled to an eternity without sickness or despair in a field of reeds. In bygone Norse tradition the valiant warriors would go to Valhalla and the others would go to Freya’s everlasting meadow. Christians believe in heaven and hell, and Buddists reincarnation.**

_What if you don’t believe in anything?_

**Then does it matter?**

_I think this is what it is to be dead._

It’s nothing. Black. Blacker than black: a room painted in vantablack. A vacuum. When you hold out your arms in front of you, they don’t exist. 

You don’t exist. So much for going to work in the morning. 

_If I don’t exist, how am I thinking?_

All at once, in the nothing there appears… _something_. It’s so tiny of a something at first you aren’t sure it’s even there. A speck. A glint. A flash. 

Like watching the time lapse of two cells forming a zygote transforming into an embryo and finally into a fetus, the flash becomes a blob, then an oval, and finally grows into a figure. A tall, hooded figure looming in the distance. In its long skeletal fingers, the figure holds a book that is chained to it’s wrist. 

Since you don’t have legs, you don’t know how you approach the figure. But you do and you experience a… sensation under your feet. An icy, unyielding sensation. 

_Maybe I’m not dead…_

**You are not dead, doctor.** The figure responds in a deep floating voice.

_Am I dreaming?_

**Are you?**

_No… this isn’t The Dreaming._

**You have been removed from The Dreaming.**

You’re close enough now that you can see the milky white eyes of the figure. With every passing moment, the nothing becomes less and the something becomes more and your existence grows. You’re now able to rub your temples and squeeze your eyes closed in an effort to think. 

Ryan was sleeping on your couch, you went down to let Sadie in and she stuck a syringe in your arm. Then…

 _Morpheus’ helmet! Is that who you are? Did you take his helmet?_

The figure shakes his head and opens the book, reading with blind eyes. **The mortal man. The one who is enamored with fear. He possesses Dream’s helm. Take it from him. It is your destiny.**  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Existing hurts. 

At least existing in this moment hurts. 

Every single skeletal muscle in your body is tensed and pulsing from the effort of keeping you warm. This is a truly herculean task since you are splayed haphazardly on a damp concrete floor, which - from the stinging pain in your cheekbone, knees, and chest - you deduce you’ve been _thrown_ onto. 

Somehow you retain enough discipline and commonsense to _not_ panic at first. You remain as motionless as your trembling body will allow, resisting the urge to reduce the strain on your glenohumeral joint from the awkward angles your arms are stuck in, and try to take in as much information about your situation as you can.

  * Your wrists have been tied behind your back.
  * You’re in what appears to be an old warehouse.
  * It’s dark.
  * It’s cold... Scratch that it’s _glacial_.
  * You’re not alone.



From the smell of cigarette smoke and the occasional cough, you can tell there is at least one person somewhere behind you. You wonder if it’s Crane and remember what the cloaked figure told you: ‘ **Take it from him. It is your destiny.** ’ 

What kind of _Wrinkle in Time_ bullshit was that whole thing anyway? If it wasn’t a dream, and you’re pretty sure it wasn’t, what was it? 

Destiny? If you weren’t so scared and uncomfortable you’d guffaw and roll your eyes at the whole concept. Even if you _did_ believe in destiny - which, for the record, you _don’t_ \- when it comes to your sympathetic nervous system responses, you’ve never been much of a fighter. 

If whoever has taken you reveals themselves, you know what you’ll do. You’ll beg for your life. Shit, at this point, you’ll beg for a windbreaker. You’ll do _anything_. Who cares about dignity if you die of hypothermia? 

There is no way in _any_ version of hell that it is your _destiny_ to retrieve the magic helmet of the Lord of Dreams from Crane. You value knowledge, not bravery. If destiny wants bravery, it should’ve called in the Justice League. 

The sound of footsteps resonates over the heartbeat whooshing in your ears and your chattering teeth. Then you hear the voices. 

“Has she moved at all?” An unfamiliar male voice asks. 

“She just been shakin’ and twitchin’ like that since we got here.” Another, rougher one, responds.

“If she’s not awake, I’ll wake her.” Before the voice finishes speaking, you are kicked hard and fast in the ribs. 

The air is ejected so quickly from your lungs that it’s as if the kinetic energy of it burns the tissue on its way out. You wheeze and try to curl up into a ball, straining your shoulder further. Someone grabs your arm and jerks you into a sitting position, propping you up against a wall. 

Once your eyes stop watering, you are able to make out the features of the figure crouching in front of you taking up the majority of your line of sight. Jonathan Crane is not as old nor as sinister-looking as you imagined him. 

Besides his greasy hair, dark circles under his eyes, and gaunt hollow cheeks, he might be one of your former professors or one of your co-workers. His large blue eyes behind his glasses are intelligent and he’s wearing a taupe trench coat, plaid scarf, slacks, and oxfords. 

Then he smiles and you see him - the villain hidden inside. 

“Hello there, doctor.” He does a slow scan of you and when his eyes come back to your face, the corners of his mouth are tipping down, “I hate that you’re so cold. The shivering hides your fear.” 

He twists and calls over his shoulder for someone to bring you a blanket. You try to sit up straighter, but every move you make leaves you gasping for air.

When Crane turns back to you he asks, “Don’t you want to know where you are? Or how you got here? Or what you’re doing here? For a doctor, you’re not very curious.” 

He watches you catch your breath, mild disgust curling his lip and someone comes up behind him and hands him a blanket. You’ve never seen such a beautiful piece of fabric. It’s riddled with holes, is vomit green with dinosaur print, and you’re pretty sure it has fleas - but when Crane throws it over you, you sigh and bask in its warmth giving glory. 

“Thank you, Sadie.” 

The name on his lips stops your internal sonnet-reciting to the blanket and you focus on the sweet, cherubic face of your colleague… your _friend_ who is looking down at you. Sadie’s expression is mildly empathetic for a moment, but she ultimately smiles and waves at you like this is a completely normal situation for you two. 

It’s… unsettling. 

“If it weren’t for my Sadie,” Crane stands and tucks her into his side, “None of this would be possible.” 

_**My** Sadie?_

Morpheus was right. Power hungry mortals _love_ to show off. Scarecrow cannot help but monologue, to let you know how _clever_ he is. It’s so predictable you have to strain to keep from laughing. God, he’s even brought you to the cliched abandoned warehouse of terror.

 _What is this? A comic book?_

“You see, years ago, Sadie here was one of my students. She was my best student and I made her my T.A.” Bile rises in the back of your throat while you watch Sadie gazing up at him with big love-struck eyes. He tilts his head down and places a tender kiss on the tip of her nose. 

The most offensive thing to you about all of this, isn’t Sadie’s betrayal. Yes, that smarts. But the _most_ offensive thing is that Sadie is betraying you for something as banal as falling in love with the professor she TA’d for in graduate school. 

“She developed the serum in your system, you know. The one that is blocking you from REM sleep? The research was halted by ethics committees when the mice started developing severe mental delays and learning disabilities with prolonged use. But I allowed her to continue the project in secret in my lab.” 

A serum that is blocking you from REM? What did the figure say? ‘ **You have been removed from The Dreaming**.’ And it wasn’t the first time you stopped dreaming.

Your eyes flash to Sadie’s, “Did you use this on me before?” 

When she smiles, you see her dimples. “After you told me all about your little trips to the _Land of Dream_... or whatever and then gave me that old piece of paper.” 

“The token… ,” you say under your breath. 

“Which she delivered directly to me.” Crane boasts. 

Your exhausted brain is trying to keep up with all this information. You’re digging up memories of Sadie from your hippocampus and replaying, pausing, and rewatching them, searching for any clues you missed - _anything_ that would’ve pointed at her being this person in front of you now. 

“You already have the only object I had that is connected to The Dreaming. So why am I here?” 

“Finally! Some questions. I was beginning to think the serum’s side effects were starting to affect you, doctor.” Crane’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses and he releases Sadie, crouching down again to look more directly into your eyes. 

“You see, I’ve been waiting for my moment. I've been stalking the gardens in The Dreaming nightly, waiting for my chance to get into the citadel. And last night I finally had that chance. Morpheus was gone. So I snuck into his throne room and grabbed the scariest thing I could find - a mask.” 

“Helmet.” You interrupt automatically, twitching from the impulse to clap a hand over your mouth and then wincing at the corresponding ache around the ties at your wrist. 

“Yes. The _helmet_. I see you know of it.” His lips twitch up in a half smile, “Well, of _course_ you’d know of it. You’ve spent quite a bit of time there, in that citadel. Haven’t you, doctor?” 

You try to flinch away from his hand as he reaches out and brushes some hair back from your eyes, causing your injured ribs to scream at you. 

“As soon as I touched the helmet, I could _sense_ the power. I was just about to leave with my prize, but before I did something... _interesting_ started to happen. All the tapestries, you know the ones that line his throne room?” Crane doesn’t wait for your answer, “They all changed to show the exact same thing. Would you like to venture a guess as to what it was?” 

You shake your head once. 

“It was _you_ , doctor. It was your face, your body, and your voice, projected onto every single tapestry in that vast hall. And I don’t need to tell you, what a _thrilling_ sight it was to behold. Those black lacy stockings… ,” Crane closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip, pretending to be overcome. 

Before this, you didn’t think you could feel anything other than pain, disgust, and fear. You were wrong. At least the flush of humiliation warms your cheeks. 

“At first I was confused, but when the hallway echoed with the sounds of your moans and your voice calling out his name in ecstasy, there was no doubt. _You_ are the woman the Lord of Dreams dreams of, _you_ are the key to exploiting his power. And not just this...,” he snaps and reaches back to grab the helmet one of his henchmen hands to him, “... _flimsy_ , trivial ghost of it. _All_ of his power. ” 

He lowers the helmet over his head and the chill you’d just chased out of your skeleton reverberates through you. 

“While we wait for him to meet our demands,” from behind the bones of the ancient god his voice is muffled and far away, “I would like to experiment with my new toy. You don’t mind. Do you, doctor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I have no self control. 
> 
> xx


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just a nightmare. A horrible and very real feeling nightmare, yes. But still - just a nightmare.

Relief floods you. You’re not in a cold warehouse, you’re in your apartment. You’re not shivering on a dirty concrete floor. You’re warm and cozy under your comforter. You stretch and groan and take a deep breath - no broken ribs. 

A few moments later, when your alarm goes off, you shudder when you see the Root of the Day.

> Epial, -o (Greek). A nightmare

_On the nose again._

It was just a nightmare. A horrible and very real feeling nightmare, yes. But still - just a nightmare. 

Rubbing your eyes, you pad to the bathroom to get ready for work. When you throw open the shower curtain you recoil and scream because the tub is full of snakes. There must be at least fifty of all different shapes and sizes. Pythons, vipers, and tiny garters, they’re all hissing and writhing and the ones near the top are trying to slither out. 

A voice fills your apartment, like the announcements made on a loudspeaker. 

“ _Fear has been around almost as long as life itself. It, along with desire, are the fuel for natural selection and serve as potent motivators._ ”

Every single hair on your body is standing at attention and your heart is beating so hard you can barely think, let alone grasp what is being said. 

“ _Even the most basic of animals are capable of experiencing fear. Oysters, for example, only have a simple nerve network, yet they snap their shells shut when a threat is perceived. Some may argue that this is nothing more than a reflex - to which I would respond: so is fear. The fear response is largely modulated by a part of the autonomic nervous system that does not strictly need input from the central nervous system to react. Therefore, by definition, fear can be considered a reflex._ ” 

Pressing your back against the wall you try to inch away. There’s no thought in your mind of how or why there are several different species of serpents in your tub. All you know is you need to get away. But your body seems incapable of moving faster than the pace of a sloth on benzos. 

“ _Fundamental fear is encoded in our genes. It’s a fear of death at its most basic level - the fear of snakes, spiders, and things that go bump in the night. This fear has been selected for. Before the days of antivenin, emergency departments, and antibiotics, our ancestors that had natural aversions to these things had a higher likelihood of surviving to pass on their genes - including these aversions_.” 

You now recognize the voice as that of Dr. Crane and if your eyes weren’t preoccupied keeping watch on the horrors in your tub, you’d roll them at the arrogance and absurdity of his obviously rehearsed speech. The man is a narcissist who has been locked up too long with no one willing to listen to him preach and now he’s forcing you to be his pupil - willing or not. 

“ _Of course, as highly social animals our fears, including these one, can also be taught. A baby is known to look toward its caregiver to see how they should react to certain stimuli. And in this same vein we can teach ourselves to conquer fears. We can train ourselves to translate these fears into curiosity, or enjoyment when we are removed from the immediate danger, like in a zoo or when watching a movie or visiting a haunted house… But what happens when we take the snakes out from behind the glass or the monster out of the television?_ ”

A weight drops onto your shoulders and you know what it is before the reptilian face comes into view. 

Your blood turns to ice and you try to scream but your larynx is closed off. You try to run but you’ve become paralyzed. The only thing that you seem to be able to do is make a pitiful whining sound in the back of your throat. 

The snakes disappear, your bathroom disappears. You shiver from the cold of the ground you’re sitting on and whimper at the pain in your side. 

“Hmmm… snakes.” Scarecrow murmurs from behind the helmet, “How predictable. Let’s see what else you find nightmarish shall we, doctor?” 

Before you can protest, the warehouse falls away. 

Now you’re in a… closet? And you’re not sure how you got there or what you were doing before. Because you’ve catapulted into a dream-like state by Crane, you have the temporary amnesia characteristic of dreaming. You’ve already forgotten the snakes, the warehouse, and the egotistical sermon Crane was giving.

It’s a closet similar to the one that Jamie Lee Curtis hides in at the end of the movie Halloween, a narrow closet with slats at the top that let the evening glow in, casting eerie stripes of light on the wall and across your face. As soon as a distinctive shadow of a man walks in front of the slats and you know it’s not _similar_ to the closet in _Halloween_ , it’s the _exact same one_.

Michael Meyers is standing right outside, presumably with a huge knife and somehow you know, he’s looking for you. You need to stay hidden, your life depends on it. You’ve pinned yourself so completely against the back wall, behind the clothes, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had bruises on your spine later. 

The taste of metal fills your mouth and you wonder if you’ve broken a tooth from clenching your jaw to tight. Since you’ve been holding your breath, when you see the shadow start to retreat, you let it out with a whoosh. You clap your hands over your mouth and your knees shake so hard they clash together. 

But it’s too late. He’s heard you. 

He storms back to the closet, rips the door open, and drags you out by your hair. Between gasping in pain, sobbing, and gagging on your all-consuming dread, you beg him to spare you. You feel weak and helpless like a cornered animal about to be eaten alive. 

When he speaks, it’s not his voice that comes from behind the mask. It’s Crane’s. 

“ _We humans evolved this oversized cerebral cortex that helped us think critically and pass on spoken word. This gave us an overblown sense of control. We thought we could remove ourselves from our animal ancestors. We thought we could conquer fear. We’ve turned fear into a game, a holiday, something to give us a rush, something to make us feel alive. In the process we also made our fear more complex, giving it layers and dimensions._ ”

The _Halloween_ nightmare retreats and you’re brought back to the warehouse only for a fraction of a second before being catapulted into the next one. 

You’re in the medical cadaver lab dissecting out the brachial plexus on your cadaver. 

There’s a tremble that runs down your arm and you lose control of the scalpel, severing the entire posterior compartment. Your professor tuts and marks something on his clipboard. Panic seizes you, making your chest rise and fall with increased speed. 

“Wait no.” You plead, “I’m sorry I just - I can try to… please don’t.” 

“Very well,” he says after a moment, “Name the branches.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Name all the branches and tell me what they go to and I won’t mark you down.” 

Your shoulders drop in relief, “Oh okay. Well starting at the C5 level we have the -,”

“No. Name all the branches of the _arteries_ that go through the upper limbs.” 

Your cheeks are scalded with burning humiliation, “But… but I’m a neurologist not a cardiologist. I haven’t had to know all of that for _years_.” 

The professor frowns in disapproval and shakes his head, “That’s unfortunate. I’m going to have to report this to the board.” 

“Please. Stop. Wait.” You’re floundering. 

How is this happening? You don’t remember needing to pass medical anatomy labs again in order to keep your license. No one told you you’d have to do this. 

Laughter comes from the dissected face of your cadaver. It’s lifeless, unblinking, unlidded eyes move to focus on you and the flayed lips speak in the voice of the Scarecrow, “ _Ah. Here it is. The double edged sword of our higher level thought processes. New, more nuanced fears are rooted deep in our subconscious. Fear of humiliation, rejection, and personal failure._ ” 

“Please…,” you beg, “Why are you doing this? There’s nothing I can give you that you don’t already have.” 

Yet again the torture evolves and you’re not even brought back to the physical plane this time. Crane is getting more adept at using Morpheus’ power stored in the helmet. 

Kevin pops his head into the doorway of the cadaver lab. “Hey, there’s some lady here to see you. She’s pretty upset.” 

At no point does it seem odd to you that Kevin, your co-worker from Gotham, is here in your medical school anatomy lab across the country. Nor do you bat an eyelash when you follow him out the door and are transported to the neurology clinic at Gotham General. 

The woman is middle aged, she’s sobbing. Broken. You approach her and lightly touch her hunched shoulders. When she looks up and sees you she reels away from you and her expression transforms into one of disgust and indignant rage - as if you’ve touched her in hands that are covered in infected blood.

“ _You_!” she spits and points a finger at you, “This is all your fault!” 

Pointing a finger at your chest you ask in a voice that is weary and timid, “Me?” 

“Yes you! My son... You killed my son!” 

“I’m sorry, this must be a misunderstanding. I’m not sure I’ve even met yo-,” 

She bulldozes your attempt to make sense of the situation, “My son! My baby boy! He was in here last week. Seventeen. Just a child. You diagnosed him with seizure disorder and wrote him a prescription for gabapentin…,” she becomes overwhelmed with her grief and sobs. 

You dig around in your mind, trying to place her. You don’t recollect seeing her or a seventeen year old boy last week, but it’s entirely possible. The residents are worked hard and you see upwards of sixteen patients a day. 

“You gave him the wrong dosage…,” her rage is gone and as her words sink in, you wish it’d come back. Rage is an easy emotion to build armor against. But her defeat, her raw grief… it’s too much for you to bear. 

“He overdosed.” 

Your brows knit together, “But… but that can’t be right. The attending has to check the orders and then the pharmacist. There are too many checkpoints. This must be a mistake.” 

_How. Is. This. Happening?!_

“Don’t try to shift the blame! There _was_ a mistake,” She directs her red and swollen eyes at you, “And _you_ made it. It was _you_ who wrote the order wrong in the first place. _**You.** Killed. My. Son._” 

You clutch your stomach. You feel like you are going to vomit. Could this have been your fault? Could you have made such a mistake? The answer, you know, is yes. You’re only human after all, you have and will always make mistakes. But not _this_ mistake. 

_Anything but this mistake._

“Doctor, there’s a call for you.” The charge nurse holds the phone out to you from across the desk. In a daze, you take it and put it to your ear. 

There’s a _tsk_ -ing on the other end, “ _Oh dear. Your gross incompetence has **killed** this poor woman’s only son._” 

“Why are you doing this?” you ask again, as the flood of terrors Crane has been inducing in you comes rushing back. 

“ _Our bodies' reactions to these higher-level fears are different. The simple animal fears turn on the fight or flight response, priming your physiology for efficiency. Your heart rate increases and blood flow is directed to your skeletal muscles, your pupils will dilate, and your pain will be temporarily redirected. Your reaction to the snakes, to the murderer. I’ve only been able to elicit these surface fears in my subjects until now…,_ ” 

You’re out of the hospital, away from the nightmare of the grieving mother. You’re not in the warehouse, or your apartment, nor are you in a closet from an old horror movie, or the cadaver lab from medical school. You aren’t sure where you are, or if you’re anywhere at all. Either way, it doesn’t matter - your location is irrelevant because this nightmare is simply an awareness. 

An awareness that you are alone. 

Not just alone temporarily, but completely, utterly, hopelessly alone. Unattached, unloved, and unnoticed. It leaves you feeling empty in a way you never knew existed - a yearning for connection deeper than any hunger pang, an all-consuming hollow sorrow that leaves you breathless. 

“Here it is.” Crane’s voice calls into the emptiness, “Your deepest fear.” 

He appears before you, the large compound eyes of the mask glittering like hundreds of gems.

“ _When our **deep** fears come to fruition, the ones I haven’t been able to access until now - the fight-or-flight does not kick in. Instead, fear takes on a more… insidious form. It feels as if we’ve ingested a systemic toxin. We become flooded with a nondescript radiating pain and exhaustion, like our bodies are punishing us. It’s a chronic response, a slow cancer that eats away at the very core of our existence. It’s the price we pay for our hyper developed frontal lobes._” 

When he takes off the helmet the physical pain in your shoulders and ribs that the induced sleep was blocking comes back with a vengeance. The agony is so sharp that you have to grit your teeth to tame the feral sob that’s ripping your voice box to shreds and you’re temporarily blinded by it. 

Your tongue is swollen, sticking to the roof of your dry mouth. You must have bitten it sometime in your sleep. Perhaps it was the cause of the metallic taste in your mouth during the Michael Meyers dream. Hot tears streak down your cheeks, cracking the frozen surface of your face and you’re vaguely aware of a conversation happening beyond you. 

At first all you can make out are blurry colors and shapes. The bright blue and red, speaking animatedly to the dull, neutral colored figure you assume is Crane. 

Crane described the deeper layers of fear as a toxin and a cancer and as you remember the nightmares you can feel the evidence of what he’d said. The physical pain that was so glaring not moments before has wilted in the face of your defeat. Like a swarm of army ants taking over a much larger beast, the ache of rejection, failure, incompetence, and loneliness - seemingly dull compared to the rest of your physical complaints - dominates. 

It numbs your physical pain, or maybe that’s the cold. Either way, you yield to it. Letting the debilitating fatigue seep into your pores, into your capillaries, to your veins, and finally your heart. Your eyelids grow heavy and you stop shivering - in fact, you’re starting to feel rather warm. 

“Hey, ‘Crow!” a female voice calls. You register some ridiculous red platform boots standing in front of you, “What’d ya do to her?” 

A beautiful, terrifying, familiar face appears as the woman crouches and tilts her head to look into your face. Her manic blue eyes grow wide with recognition, “Shiiiiiit! Is that you docta? No offense, but you look like hot Chinatown garbage.” 

“She’s none of your concern, Quinn.” Crane’s voice is stern and the woman stands up, out of your view. 

You let your eyelids slide closed and listen to the rest of the conversation as you slip into the bliss of unconsciousness. 

“You know there’s someone tall, dark, and scary lookin’ for this one? And he ain’t gonna be happy if she dies.” 

“She won’t die.” Crane’s voice is calm but patronizing. 

“Look at her lips! They’re as blue as my hair. You know she’s a docta, like us right? You should treat her with some respect.” 

Crane’s responding laugh is derisive, “Quinn, you do little to help the girl’s case. You’re no doctor. I’d sooner believe a pig to be a doctor.” 

“Fuck you, Crane. I was jus’ tryin’ to give ya a heads up. I don’t think ya want this guy on your bad side.” 

And the last thing you hear before slipping into the soft clutch of unconsciousness is the sound departing _click, click, clicking_ of heels on concrete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! 
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I've been studying my ass off for my first official medical school finals. Three down, one to go. And yes, the nightmare about medical anatomy may or may not be inspired by my very own anatomy final. Anywho! I'm excited to pump the rest of this out during my winter break. As always, thank you all for your kind words/encouragement!
> 
> xx   
> Evie


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two highly educated women falling in love with deranged criminals, you’d think they’d want to band together - start a knitting club or something to bitch about their shared experiences.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is your thirst. Inside your mouth is a desert and the tissue of your esophagus has been replaced by sandpaper.

The second thing you notice is that you are no longer cold and you are no longer tied. You allow yourself to open your eyes, just a hair, to peer out at your surroundings from behind your lashes. You’re in a bed. Well, calling a disgusting stained mattress thrown on a dirty linoleum floor a “bed” is generous, but you’re not about to complain. At least you’re warm. 

The third thing, rather _things_ , you notice are the various aches and pains mapping your body. A protective stiffness has developed in the tissue surrounding your inflamed rib cage and shoulders, your wrists are smarting from where your hands had been tied, and there’s a new stabbing pain in your thigh. 

Moving as slowly as a chameleon, you slide your hand down from under your head to see if you can investigate the new pain in your thigh, saying a silent prayer it’s not a bite from a diseased rat. It’s not a bite. It’s some sort of small tool in your pocket. 

_Holy fuck!_

When you realize what it is, your eyes fly open automatically. It’s the corkscrew you slipped into your pocket from the night before. No one bothered to check your pockets, no doubt because Sadie had told them how your naivety leaves you helpless when it comes to defending yourself. She’d often teased you about your refusal to carry pepper-spray. 

To be fair, you’re not sure a corkscrew is much of a game changer in your hands. You imagine it would take a certain level of confidence with inflicting violence to effectively use a corkscrew as a weapon. And you’ve never even hit anyone before. Hell, you’ve never so much as _pulled someone’s hair_ (in a non-sexual setting that is). 

No, you doubt you’ll be successful going from zero to stabbing someone with a corkscrew. Hypothetically, even if you _did_ manage to get past one person via the corkscrew, you’d have to manage to evade whatever goons Scarecrow has set up to keep you here. 

“Oh good! You’re awake!” Sadie’s bubbly voice echoes around the room.. 

You imagine once this room was an office with a large mahogany desk and an ergonomic rolling chair for the boss to sit in while he watched the goings-on of the factory down below from his lofty window. He probably had his degree framed and hanging on the wall. Maybe his phone rang off the hook and on Friday afternoons he’d tell his secretary to forward his calls until Monday. Maybe it smelled like coffee and cigarettes. 

But now, with the exception of the mattress and a few folding chairs, it was bare. The window is shattered, leaving a spray of glittering broken glass on the floor in its wake. The door has been ripped off its hinges and instead of degrees hanging on the wall there’s graffiti. While there is a smoky smell under the ammonia-esque scent of urine, it has a more… melted-plastic quality to it than the smell of cigarette smoke. 

Sadie bends to you and cradles the back of your head with the palm of her hand to help sit partway up. She presses a styrofoam cup of water to your cracked lips, holding it there until you’ve drained the contents. 

“Do you think you could sit up some more? I’ve brought some cookies.” She waggles her eyebrows at you playfully.

The way Sadie is acting right now, as if nothing is wrong, as if you two are sitting at your apartment working on a jigsaw together, it’s is one of the more perturbing things you’ve ever encountered - which at this point, considering all you’ve seen, is a weighty statement. 

You shake your head at her once and manage to squeeze some words out of your dessicated larynx, “I… I think… my ribs - I think they’re… broken.” 

She frowns and moves behind you, looping her arms under your armpits and heaving you up to a sitting position against the wall behind you and you wail from the fresh pain this causes in your chest. 

You’re trying to catch your breath as she comes around you again. And you don’t know why you do it, it must be some sort of reflex, but you reach out and snatch her hand in yours. You don’t cognitively think about what you say next, the two words just tumble out of you unprompted.

“Sadie… _why_?” You search her eyes which are putrid babyshit green in the dim light of the warehouse. You remember previously seeing them sparkle like emeralds in the sun before and thinking they were the most beautiful color, but now you thought they were hideous. 

Your former colleague plops down next to you, crossing her legs in front of her as pulls out a tupperware of cookies from her bag. When she pops the lid open, you can smell the heavenly vanilla and chocolate - so out of place in the filthy wearhouse. When she holds them out for you, you wish you could say you said no - on principle. But you’d had so little joy for the past… however many hours you’d been here that you can’t resist. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” She starts before taking a bite of a cookie, “But he’s not what you think.” 

If you weren’t so busy devouring the most delicious confection you think you’ve ever eaten, you would’ve scoffed at her and pointed to your bruised sides as evidence to the contrary. 

“Johnny - er, Dr. Crane - he’s just a purist when it comes to science. He’s so… _passionate_ about his research and he’s willing to… _bend_ the rules to satiate his curiosity. You know just as well as I do how difficult it can be to get anything through an ethics committee nowadays. Science is stagnating because of the limitations we’re putting on animal and human experimentation. You can’t deny that.” 

The saccharine cookie turns to dust in your mouth and you swallow it down with a wince, “Sadie, how can you say that? Haven’t you learned anything from history? From Tuskegee? From what they did in the holocaust?” 

“Don’t be a hypocrite. Your field reaps the benefits of human experimentation more than any other. Medical doctors sing the praises of James Marion Sims, calling him ‘the father of modern gynecology,’ and he developed all his techniques on his slaves.” 

“And that was wrong.” 

She cocks her head at you, “Was it though? How many lives has his discoveries saved? Think of where medicine could be today if the guidelines for human experimentation were… a little looser.” 

“But that’s just it, Sadie. We’re trying to learn from our past mistakes. Allowing for human experimentation means that those who are systematically disenfranchised will always be the ones exploited. These practices compromise the integrity of not only the individual practitioners, but the trust in the system as a whole.” 

You can already feel the effects of the water and glucose, fueling your body, clearing your mind, making you feel more… alive. Acknowledging that if you’re ever going to make it out of here, you’ll need some energy as you take another bite of the cookie. 

“Let’s just agree to disagree,” she sighs as if you’d been arguing over whether New York or Chicago style pizza was better. 

A hefty silence falls over the two of you as you both chew the cookies slowly. You look out at your legs, under the old dinosaur blanket next to hers. She’s wearing jeans with holes in the knees and her black canvas Vans. You’ve tripped over those very shoes when they’ve been laying around your apartment, you’ve watched your friend slide them on and off countless times. It’s strange how they bring you comfort. 

It’s so easy to slip into a place of acquiescence and you have to fight against the urge to make excuses for Sadie. It’s so tempting to just go on pretending nothing is wrong, especially when she’s so good at pretending. 

The sound of footsteps approaching makes you tense and you stare at the doorway unblinkingly until two bouncing pigtails, and sharp cat-like eyes above a comically huge bubble of satiny pink bubble gum comes into view. 

Sadie makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. 

_Pop!_

You flinch at the sound of the bubble popping, amplified by the emptiness of your surroundings. 

“Oh! The docta’s awake!” 

“What do you want Quinn?” Sadie says with the patience of a teenager charged with watching their younger sibling (read: not patient whatsoever). 

Harley Quinn narrows her eyes at Sadie briefly before returning her demented smiling eyes back to you. Even in your state, you perceive the two don’t like each other.

_Strange._ Two highly educated women falling in love with deranged criminals, you’d think they’d want to band together - start a knitting club or something to bitch about their shared experiences. 

“I’m just here to tell your lovely guest that I have a surprise for her later.” 

Though her tone is nothing but pure enthusiasm, you know better than to be anything but distrubed by what sort of “surprises” Quinn has arranged for you. 

“Get out of here before I tell John that you ignored his orders.” Sadie growls and gets to her feet. 

Harley laughs hysterically and before she turns and walks away she says, “No. We wouldn’t wanna tell sweet _Johnny_.” 

Once the laughter and footfalls recede Sadie turns her body toward you while keeping a wary eye on the door as if she expects her to come back. “Sorry about that, the Joker told Crane to give her a couple of jobs when he got out and she’s been hanging around ever since. She’s like multiple drug resistant gonorrhea, we don’t want her but we can’t get rid of her.” 

Despite yourself you laugh at her joke, but it’s cut short by the shooting pain in your side. 

“Do you think you can stand?” Sadie is holding her hand out to help you up. Her round face is so familiar. So trusting with the dimples and freckles and even though you want to hate her, and you know you _should_ hate her - you can’t.   
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
‘ _Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given to me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God._ ’ 

This passage from the oath you took when graduating medical school plays in your head as you turn the corkscrew around in your hand. It’s a simple T-style corkscrew with a sturdy wooden handle. Your internal monolog is a jumble as you try to decide what to do. 

_I can’t. But I **have to** , right?_

_I’m scared I’ll accidentally kill her. I’m scared she’ll retaliate. I’m scared Crane will retaliate. I’m scared no one is coming for me. I’m scared no one cares._

_I’m scared…_

You sit up straighter. This is where Crane wants you. He wants you scared. Despite what Sadie thinks, it’s not about _science_. No, it’s about _control_. He wants to be in control and the easiest type of people to control are people who are scared. 

Gripping the handle tightly you close your eyes and take a deep breath in and ask yourself: _What am I really scared of?_

From your misadventures with his induced nightmares Crane more or less told you there are two types of fears: the base, animalistic fears, and the complex nuanced fears specific to human higher-order thinking. 

Crane is wrong. Both these fears are the same. 

Like many men do, Crane made the mistake of thinking he was the smartest person in the room while he was monologuing during your torture. But he isn’t the only one who understands evolution. Fear of rejection, of failure, of loneliness - these also stem from survival instincts. Throughout history humans have needed each other to survive. Failing to prove yourself useful could lead to rejection from the group and loneliness and ultimately death. 

Thus, every fear traces back to the same exact foundation: a fear of death. 

What did Morpheus say to you the first time you met? ‘ _Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, doctor, you do not defy Death. She comes for each and every one of you eventually_.’ 

Death is inevitable and fearing it is like fearing the rising sun - no matter how much you think about it or wish it away, it still happens. 

There’s a knock on the door and you start. 

“You okay in there?” Sadie calls. 

“Yeah. I’m just about done.” You shout back as you shove the corkscrew back into your pocket, flush the toilet and pull up your pants. She walks in as you’re coming out of the stall and sets a container of wet wipes next to the small bag of toiletries she’d given you to brush your teeth and rinse your mouth out with earlier. 

“Use these,” she instructs, making a face at the sink, “I wouldn’t trust the water here.” 

The way she watches you, with a soft smile at the corners of her lips, you can tell she’s proud of herself. She fancies herself the benevolent captor, the good-cop to her twisted fuck-boy’s bad-cop. You feel like you should be thanking her and it makes you sick with rage. 

And it’s that rage that finally gives you the last bit of courage. 

_It’s now or never. Be quick. Don’t hesitate. Just one swift uppercut - there’s no major arteries under her chin she won’t die… probably._

_Don’t be scared._

_In the end she comes for us all…_

While Sadie is looking down at her phone, you reach into your pocket and grip the wooden handle of the screw, positioning the metal between your middle and index finger. 

_Don’t be scared._

Moving swiftly so you don’t lose your nerve, you take it out and before she even realizes what’s happening you’ve jammed the screw right in the soft belly between her jaw and neck. 

_Fuck. I’m scared._


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m going to need **all** the therapy after this._

If this were a movie, Sadie’s eyes would have rolled back into her head and she would’ve conveniently passed out so you could move on with your poorly-planned escape. 

But this is not a movie...

Instead, Sadie’s eyes grow as wide as saucers and her phone clatters on the floor as her fingers blindly grope around the corkscrew lodged behind her chin. When she opens her mouth to sputter what you can only assume is a ‘ _What the fuck?_ ’ she’s cut off by a flood of deep maroon blood pouring out of her mouth like the elevator in _The Shining._

“Oh shit!” On instinct you start grabbing handfuls of the wet wipes she brought in and handing them to her to clean herself up with. First, you stab her and now you’re... what? Helping her? 

_What am I doing? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?! I can’t just leave her here. Can I?_

“Sadie. Look at me!” You grab her shoulders and force her to look at you. She coughs blood on your face. 

With the type of trained calm only a health care worker would have around bodily fluids, you stoically wipe it off and continue to speak to her, “Now listen to me. You’re going to be fine. You might get a bit woozy, but someone will find you before you bleed out… I think.” Your eyes flicker to the blood and you amend, “Probably.” 

Her eyes bulge a little and she makes a terrified gargling sound. 

“Head wounds are just dramatic, they always look worse than they are. It’s not like I got your carotid. Anyway… Shit. I’m rambling. You know me, I never know how to end things at the best of times.” 

_What am I doing?_

“So… I guess. I’m sorry?” You frown and your indignant rage rears its head, “No, you know what? I’m not sorry. This - you put me in a corner. Your boyfriend almost killed me _several_ times. So. Fuck... you? And I hope you don’t die. But not for your sake, for my sake.” 

You’re backing away now, wiping your bloodied hands on your jeans, and your adrenaline is pumping. Your heart is pounding so hard that it sounds like an AK-47. 

No… That’s an actual AK-47.

_Shit._

The sound of gunfire is echoing out in the warehouse and you press yourself against the wall. Illogically, you assume this is somehow tied to what you’ve done to Sadie. It just seems like too big of a coincidence that at the exact same moment you commit the most violent act of your entire life the whole warehouse erupts into gunfire. 

You’re trying to build up the confidence to make your escape when the door is kicked open so brutally, if you hadn’t just peed moments before, you’re sure urine would be running down your legs. 

Harley Quinn grins when she sees you, doing little to ease your anxiety, “There you are! I’ve been looking all ova for ya!” 

The woman is a truly terrifying sight. She has two pistols in belt holsters strapped around her thighs Laura Croft Style, and her baseball bat has been splattered with blood. As she approaches you notice there’s also fine spray of blood dusting her pale skin and a bruise forming over one of her high cheekbones. 

“I brought ya yer surprise. Ya gotta come see!” She’s so excited, she bounces a little as she talks. 

With every step she takes toward you, you press yourself even further against the wall, until each and every vertebrae is touching the cold masonry. And when you run out of vertebrae, you turn your head and press your cheek, as if if you try hard enough you’ll be able to disappear into it. 

The gut-churning sound of wet wheezing draws her attention. 

Eyes wide with genuine surprise Quinn looks back and forth between you and Sadie, her fiery lips a perfect ‘O.’

“Docta! Did _you_ do this?” She says it like a proud mother whose just found out her child is a piano virtuoso. With a pang of regret you look at Sadie sitting on the floor, mouth moving like a fish out of water, trying to grasp the slick corkscrew. 

“Oh no, sweetie,” Harley bats Sadie’s hands away, “Leave that alone. You’ll only make it worse.” 

When you see the raw distress in your former friend’s green eyes as she looks up at Quinn, your own eyes sting and flood with tears. You just want to get the fuck out of here. Away from the evidence of what you’ve done.

 _I’m going to need **all** the therapy after this._

The sound of another round of bullets from outside refocuses Harley. She leaps into action so quick, you barely realize what’s happening until she’s already roundhoused one of Crane’s men, sending him reeling off the balcony to the abandoned warehouse floor, and led you halfway down a hallway that looks down on the mayhem below. 

While you gape over the balcony and allow her to drag you along, Harley keeps up a string of dialogue. Well, dialogue might not be the best way to describe it - in fact, you’re not even sure she’s talking to _you_ at all. Because while continually glances back at you, you have no idea what she’s talking about. 

“Oh boy, are you gonna be excited. But Mista J… oh, he’s gonna be furious when he finds out what I did. But when I tell him how that stupid Scarecrow insulted his princess he’ll undastand that I had to. He’ll undastand that I had no otha choice…,” 

A cloud of smoke is concealing what is happening in the warehouse below, but it sounds like nothing less than urban warfare. Sporadic gunfire intermingled with shouting and groaning men. You pass an unconscious man in a bulletproof vest that says ‘SWAT’ on it. 

“Harley...? Did you call in the SWAT team?” 

She snorts and looks back at you at the exact same time a man in full tactical gear starts to charge her. Without missing a beat she lets go of you and swings her baseball bat at him, hitting his helmet with a sickening crack, flooring him instantly. 

Then she turns back to you and as casually as can be says, “I’m no rat. I’d nevah call the _pigs_.”

It’s not until she’s leading you down the stairs that she adds, “But the Bat probably did.” 

“The Bat?” 

“You know. Batman?” 

When you grab hold of the handrail to stop you, she jerks back from the sudden halt in momentum and looks up at you with a clear expression of annoyance. 

“You brought... Batman here?” 

“ _AWW_! I _wanted_ it to be a surprise!” She pouts, “After that candyass Crane _insulted_ me I went out to find your Mr. Dream Man or whateva his name is. But _giiiirl_ ,” she tugs on your hand and you relent and resume following down the stairs. “He’s a hard man to find.” 

“You’re telling me.” 

“Anyway, when I was lookin’ for him, Batman came ‘round to harass me _again_ about where Crane is and this time I decided to lead him here. That’ll teach that stupid fuckin’ ‘Crow who he can and can’t mouth off to. Some people just have no respect, ya know?” 

By the time you and Quinn reach the bottom of the stairs, the smoke has cleared enough for you to make out some nearby shapes around the massive warehouse. There are a few groaning bodies on the ground and a handful of brutish men engaging in hand-to-hand combat with members of the SWAT team. 

You’re wondering what you’ll be expected to do here. Does she think you’ll be able to hold your own among these men now that she saw what you did to Sadie? Are you supposed to fight your way out alongside her? Will she give you one of her pistols? And if she does, should you admit to her that you’ve never shot a gun before? 

Harley must sense your anxiety because she gives you a reassuring squeeze, “If we can just make it to that hallway ova there,” she points to an outlet from the main room about twenty yards if you cut across diagonally from where you are, “There’s a side door we can sneak out of.” 

While you suck in a deep breath, you try to harness the courage you had in the bathroom not moments earlier. Telling yourself, _‘Don’t be scared. She comes for us all…_ ,’ But instead of making you feel brave and invincible like it did before, this time the realization makes you feel fragile and chicken-shit. 

You think of the blood pouring out of your former friend’s mouth. Just one tiny puncture had caused that and it wasn’t even in a major artery. Would Death be coming for Sadie today? Would it be your fault? Would it matter? Would she be coming for you too? 

Harley grips the back of your arm and whispers in your ear, “When I say ‘go’ we’re gonna run for it. Okay, docta?” 

You’re trembling, but you nod. The fear is making your neurons shoot off at a rapid fire pace and it seems as if time slows when she begins to countdown. 

“ _Three…_ ,”

A bullet flies so close to your face you can feel the wind it creates. Terror bubbles in your stomach and up your esophagus causing you to gag. A caped figure glides from the rafters.

“ _Two…_ ,” 

The figure lands deftly in a defensive position about 30 feet in front of you, back facing you, looking expectantly toward someone approaching from the clearing smoke. It’s Scarecrow cackling from behind Morpheus’ mask as one of his goons unleashes a firecracker spray of bullets in the direction of the caped figure. 

“ _One…_ ,” 

The cape figure, who you now see is Batman, yells out in agony and stumbles backward, clutching his elbow. At the _exact_ same time the earth beneath your feet begins to shake. Gotham isn’t like LA, it’s not known for frequent earthquakes, so you wonder if the shaking your feeling is simply the shaking of your legs. 

But before you can determine what’s happening Harley shoves you out into the warehouse toward the hallway while shouting at you to, “ _GO!_ ” 

The sound of bullets firing from right behind you makes you flinch and when you glance back you see Harley has a pistol in each hand and is laughing hysterically as she unleashes shot after shot in the direction of Scarecrow and his crew while moving sideways toward the hallway. 

She gives you a sideways glance and reminds you, “ _Don’t just stand there! Go! Run!_ ” And you immediately obey. 

You haven’t even taken half a dozen running steps when a voice you’ve been conditioned to fear roars, “Get them!” And you're yanked back by a strong hand on each shoulder. 

With objective admiration you watch as it takes five huge men to subdue the vicious Harley Quinn, feeling a little sheepish for immediately submitting to the two who are keeping a firm grip on either side of you. 

“Tie them up.” Crane orders. 

As you’re led toward the nearest concrete and steel support columns, you discern that the shaking underneath your feet has gotten stronger. It’s when some concrete rubble falls from somewhere up above, narrowly missing you and your captors that you know you’re not imagining it.

“This is the last place we want to be during an earthquake,” you try to reason with the men tying you up, “Listen to me! We’ll _all_ die if we stay here.” But Crane has trained them well. They completely ignore you, finish tying you up, and then stand sentinel next to you, guns at the ready. 

You gaze over at Quinn next to you. She has a trickle of blood coming off the bottom of her swollen lip. Since it’s the same exact color of her lipstick it looks as if it might’ve just been an accident in application. 

Her eyes are wide and you wonder if she’s as scared as you until the ground shakes violently again she starts to laugh a high pitched unhinged laugh, her teeth stained with the blood pooling in her mouth. No, you don’t think she’s _capable_ of feeling fear the same way you do, and in this moment, you envy her. 

“You’re not going to be able to stop me this time, Bat. Not when I have the power of the helmet of Dream.” The sound of Crane’s voice draws your attention to their side of the warehouse. 

From here it looks like Batman is completely screwed. He’s obviously got an injury somewhere around his left elbow joint that is making it difficult for him to fight off Crane. However, the Scarecrow’s fighting isn’t physical in nature, it’s psychological. And from the anguished cries coming from the Dark Knight, you can’t imagine what sort of nightmarish hell Crane is making the poor man bear witness to. 

Another tremor shakes the earth, sending more debris falling around you. Some of it lands on several of your guards, crushing them instantly. The remaining ones give each other a look as if to say _Fuck This_. and sprint out of the warehouse.

“Hey!” Harley screams after them, “You can’t just leave us here to die! Do you know who I am?! The Joker will _kill_ you if you let me die in here!” 

But it’s too late. They’re long gone. 

When another tremor shakes the building, the thought occurs to you how an earthquake happening at this moment seems incredibly appropriate. It’s as if even the earth is coming apart at the seams while the chaos reigns around you. Watching Quinn struggle and grunt and squirm against her bindings, an unexpected sense of calm fills you. 

And then you see her. 

“It’s inevitable…,” You whisper, “ _She’s_ inevitable.”

She smiles and waves at you, her teeth white and glistening against the matte black of her lips. She effortlessly navigates the rubble as she makes her way across the warehouse to you. Plumes of smoke and dust swirl around her, making her appear as beautiful and ominous as a valkyrie arising from the ruins of war… except you were pretty sure valkyries didn’t wear steel toed Doc Martens. Plus, tied up and rendered completely helpless, you were perhaps the furthest thing from a brave Viking warrior you could think of. 

“Who’s this bitch?” Harley spits, narrowing her eyes at the woman as she approaches and you’re mildly shocked that your companion can see her. You must both be dead. Or dying? You don’t know how it works. 

“She’s Death,” you say, giving the woman a half smile and then directing your gaze to Harley, “In the end she comes for us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, buttercups! 
> 
> Yours truly just passed my exams and have three fucking weeks off. Wahoo! And my goal is to finish up this fic in the next week or so. 
> 
> You are all amazing and am so happy you all seem to like reading this as much as I like writing it. 
> 
> xx


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You were in the neighborhood?” You arch an eyebrow at her, “Isn’t that what you told me the last time we met?” 
> 
> “I’m _always_ in the neighborhood, doctor.” 

The look Harley Quinn is giving you, like _you_ are the most insane person she’s ever laid eyes on makes you chuckle a bit. 

The past few days have taught you a lifetime's worth of lessons. Lessons about survival, stress responses, courage, fear, and the human condition. But the one you’ve learned that surprises you the most is in that little chuckle: Social conditioning can be as ingrained as any physiological reflex. The drive to act and react ‘normal’ even in _extremely_ ‘not-normal’ situations is a powerful one. 

When one of your only friends betrays you, facilitates your kidnapping, and lets her boyfriend torture and almost _kill_ you, you still laugh when she makes a joke and stifle the urge to compliment her cooking. And now, when your world is _literally_ crumbling down around you and Death is standing in front of you, you still chuckle at the ridiculousness of the person next to you. You’re an embodiment of the ‘ _This is fine_ ,’ dog sitting in the burning cafe. 

“So you’re sayin’, _this_ Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice lookin’ bitch is the one who’s finally doin’ me in?” 

“Don’t worry, Dr. Quinzel,” Death’s smile is kind as she addresses the woman, “I’m not here for you today.”

You suck in a breath, drawing the attention of Death. Seeing the conclusions you’ve leapt to written all over your face, she smirks and adds, “I’m not here for you either, doctor. Well, not in the way you’re thinking.” 

She subtly inclines her head down to indicate your waist and when you follow her gaze you see that all your bindings have vanished. 

“The hell...?” Harley narrows her eyes suspiciously at Death, rolling her newly freed shoulders. 

“Then why _are_ you here?” You ask the black haired woman, pressing your hand against the column for support as the ground shakes again. This time the quake is so powerful it creates a fracture in the middle of the concrete floor of the warehouse. 

Death is not remotely rattled by the shaking, “I was in the neighborhood and noticed that creep who stole my brother’s helm.” 

“You were in the neighborhood?” You arch an eyebrow at her, “Isn’t that what you told me the last time we met?” 

“I’m _always_ in the neighborhood, doctor.” 

Another round of debris crashes around you and Harley announces, “I don’t wanna be rude and interrupt the social club but I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here and if you two wanna see tomorrow, I suggest you do the same.” 

You’re about to follow her, when a commotion from the opposite corner of the warehouse draws your attention. Crane is bent over, hands on his knees, like a runner trying to catch their breath. 

“The helm,” Death explains, “It’s not for mortal use. It’s draining him.” 

Seizing the opportunity, Batman stands to his full impressive height and before Crane can retaliate, the caped man is already upon him. He goes straight for the uppercut and it’s so brutal, so formidable, that the helmet goes flying clear off of the professor’s head. 

Your jaw is swinging in the breeze as you watch Dream’s Helm arch in your direction. 

‘ _The mortal man. The one who is enamored with fear. He possesses Dream’s helm. Take it from him. It is your destiny_.’

Without cognitively thinking about it, you’ve moved into a jog toward the helmet. And because you haven’t taken your eyes off of it, you don’t notice that by now the crack in the concrete has steadily grown into a gaping, glowing chasm to what might be the fiery pits of hell. With coordination you didn’t know you possess, you leap forward and catch the helmet in your arms. 

_Huh. I guess the man with the book was right. It **is** my destiny. _

For a fraction of a second you feel triumphant and a grin spreads across your face but when you stumble backward, the ground falls out from under you taking your cocky smile with it. 

As you tumble down into the abyss, your stomach is plummeting along with you. The proboscis of the helmet has managed to wrap itself securely around your arm, as if it has a mind of its own and is clinging to you for dear life. 

Your arms flail for purchase - which they miraculously find when you manage to grab onto a sturdy tree root. The sudden halt in your momentum thrusts you forward and bangs you hard against the wall of earth and stone forcing all the air from your lungs. Your injured ribs protest and your palms are burning from the friction created while you were trying to get your grip on the root. 

As the root rotates you around, you get a view of your surroundings. It truly appears as if you are dangling precariously between two tectonic plates that have picked the worst possible time to split open, revealing the smoke, fire, and molten mantle beneath. 

_Don’t look down._

But your mantra from the day you were dangling out of the window of Ryan’s study doesn’t work here, because the dancing tangerine and neon yellow light from below have you thoroughly hypnotized. Hypnotized and _petrified_. Especially when you make out the silhouette of a ginormous and terrible figure rising from the depths. 

As the rapidly approaching colossal creature comes into clear view, you can see it is the shape of a man, with ribs, sternum, and skull visible beneath the scorched and bubbling flesh and muscle. His vast, blistered mouth is open in a scream of rage and the sound that emanates from him is as guttural and deep as thunder. 

He's more terrifying than any monster you could imagine and you want to look away, to close your eyes, to pretend you’re anywhere but here, but you can’t. 

The monster begins to pull himself out of the canyon and into the warehouse and while you’re gazing up at him you notice a small tuft of black hair surrounding a ghostly pale face peering over the ledge at you. 

“Doctor!” Death shouts down at you, “Are you alright?” 

Shaking your head in reply proves to be a bad decision because the slight movement makes your hands - which are already slick with perspiration - slip and you’re free-falling all over again. 

This time you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the assured flash of pain before the end. You wonder if you’ll incinerate before you reach any sort of solid surface. You wonder if Death will meet you at the bottom, or if she’ll appear in midair, like the lamp in Alice’s fall down the rabbit hole. 

Eventually, you do land on a surface. A soft and supportive surface. 

And a... _moving_ surface? 

You chance a peek, opening one of your eyes. And when you see that you are indeed moving swiftly upwards, you scramble into a sitting position and both your eyes pop open. You watch as you move past the root you were dangling on. Past the mouth of the ravine - where Death gives you a little wave and Harley Quinn, Batman, Crane, and the others are gaping at you. Past the columns you were tied to and on until you come face to face with the monster whose hand, you realize with a start, you are sitting in. 

As you take in the horrible face in front of you, you press your chest against your knees in a sort of seated fetal-position. As if this will be able to save you from a monster with a mouth that is large enough to swallow you whole. Because most of his flesh and some of the muscle has been burned off, it’s difficult for you to discern the expression of the titan as he looks down at you. You have no idea if he wants to rip you apart or is simply curious about the miniature woman who fits in his hand. 

When you finally work up the courage to look into his eyes, you sit up straighter. In the melted face of the beast you see that his eyes have no pupil, no iris, no sclera - his eyes are the night sky. Within their depths there are stars and nebulas and edges of galaxies. 

“ _Morpheus?_ ” You whisper. Though you know the answer as soon as you look at the shape of his mouth. Even in their destroyed state, you’d know his lips anywhere. Wide set, plush. Your heart lurches with both adoration and despair. 

Because this _is_ Morpehus, the man you love. You’re sure of it. But he’s not Dream anymore... 

Here, in the abandoned warehouse, he has arrived as Nightmare.

You uncurl yourself and crawl on your hands and knees to the base of his palm, near his wrist. Very carefully you raise up so that you’re standing on your knees and stretch your arms out to him. Obediently, he moves his face close enough for you to trace the traumatized edges of his lips with your hand. 

“Oh, _Morpheus_ …,” you sniff, tears leaving trails on your soot-covered cheeks. 

The emotions crashing through you are a relentless, consuming jumble. The knowledge of what Dream can become, this demonstration of his terrible power, it frightens you. And seeing him in this vengeful form causes you to feel both intense sadness and awestruck pride. Overwhelming devotion for him swells in your chest, a deep adoration you have never before felt for anyone or anything else. 

And underneath it all flows a current reassurance - knowing that, at least for now, you are safe. Morpheus is here and you know he won’t let anything happen to you.

You gasp when you notice that where your hands passed over his lips, they have changed. The blisters have vanished, the cracks have healed, and in their place is the soft peach color of his lips that you recognize. 

Pressing your palms to his temples for support, you stand up on your tiptoes and place a kiss in between where his eyebrows would be if they weren’t burned off. 

Under your lips the red, angry, inflamed tissue is transformed back to his smooth, pale marble-like complexion. And as if your touch has planted a seed of healing, his beautiful skin is restored in branches and swirling vines out across his face from the apices of where you’ve touched him. 

His black lashes and brows begin to grow back and when he closes his eyes and breathes out a sigh of relief that almost knocks you over, you understand the agony he’s been in trying to find you. And that this is the creature that has manifested as a result of his pain. 

Closing your own eyes, you press your tiny cheek against his, exhaling your own sigh of relief at the feel of his skin against yours, and in the understatement of the century you say, “I’m so happy you’re here.” 

The surface of Morpheus’ flesh grows more solid beneath your face and the plexuses of sensory nerves lying under your skin pick up on the familiar rhythmic pulsing of his heart - beating at the same pace of your own. 

Opening your eyes, you perceive how changed your circumstances are. 

You are no longer resting against the cheek of a giant, but the chest of a man. Or at least the _form_ of a man - one who wraps his arms around your waist protectively and pulls you against him. Your feet are no longer supported by the pliable and warm foundation of Dream’s hand but are now firmly planted on the cold hard concrete. And the gaping wound in the earth that had been about to swallow you up not moments before is completely healed - without a trace or a scar, as if nothing had ever happened. 

At the exact same time you draw away enough to look up at him, the helmet clatters to the ground at your feet. You move to pick it up but Morpheus stops you, catching your face in his hand and shaking his head, “Leave it. It does not matter.” 

How can the voice of one person affect you so? How can the sound waves that Dream produces move the tiny bones in your ear in such a way that they create palpitations in your thoracic cavity? Several weeks ago, you would’ve scoffed and thought such a thing a physiologic impossibility. 

Dream is now fully metamorphosed into the spectacular form that will live in your memories for eternity, robe and all. The way he’s gazing down at you and the way his thumb is sliding so tenderly across the line of your jaw, he makes the rest of the world disappear. 

“ _Eratos… beloved_.” he sounds simultaneously agonized and cherishing. He tilts his forehead to yours, brushing your nose with his and it becomes necessary for you to clutch the front of his robe to keep yourself standing upright. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, encased in his arms, breathing in the air from his lungs, but no amount of time would be enough. If there _is_ a heaven, you’re convinced yours would consist of this moment, this feeling, this man. 

Unfortunately, the spell is broken when he begins to move his hands up your side and you wince as he reaches the edges of your wounded ribs. Before you can stop him he’s lifting up your shirt to reveal the ugly purple and blue mottled bruise covering the area where Crane kicked you. When his eyes cut back to yours they’re burning, flashing with the fury of the monster he was before. 

“Who did this to you, _eratos_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe it's a bit melodramatic on all the feelings. But I think we've earned it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you’re an adult with adult responsibilities and it turns out the adult world is a cold, heartless place that doesn't give a shit about the integrity of story structures.

In grade school you learned that most stories worth telling have a specific structure. Like a delta wave on an EEG, or really good sex, there’s a slow build to a climax followed by a brief refractory period that ties up all the loose ends. 

In these stories there’s a moment where everyone can stop and take a breath. To take a moment and reflect on the lessons they’ve learned in their journey, how they’ve developed as characters, what the events have changed, and what happens now. 

Don’t worry, your story has that moment. 

Just not quite yet. 

Because you’re an adult with adult responsibilities and it turns out the adult world is a cold, heartless place that doesn't give a shit about the integrity of story structures. 

Morpheus vows to Johnathan Crane that he will never again slumber nightmare free, then allows the man to be taken back to Arkham Asylum. The walls of the warehouse are illuminated by the blue and red flashing lights of ambulances and first responders swarm the premises. You find a paramedic, pull them aside and tell them to, “Make sure you look _everywhere_. I think I heard something up in the upstairs bathroom.”

After all of this, you still have a list of adult bullshit to take care of before you can exhale. 
  * You call your boss and explain what has happened. Apparently they’ve seen it all over the news, ‘ _Missing Doctor Found Alive in Abandoned Chemical Engineering Plant was Kidnapped by Escaped Arkham Inmate_ ,’ and are more than happy to give you a “reasonable” three day leave of absence “considering the circumstances.”
  * You call your parents who are beside themselves that they can’t get a flight to Gotham sooner than tomorrow night. 
  * You start to cry when your mom does and cry even harder when your dad does. 
  * You go home to find a distraught Ryan who has been kindly taking care of Fezzik in your absence. He informs you it was he, along with Ms. Lizze, who first alerted the police of your absence. His worry for you and outrage over Sadie’s duplicity warms your heart and you are glad to find you aren’t friendless without her. 
  * You give Ryan a brief rundown of what’s been going on, though he doesn’t seem as surprised about Morpehus’ existence as you thought he would - in fact, the two seem to know each other. And he enthusiastically agrees to stay another night to watch Fezzik. 



Then you take Morpheus’ hand and let him transport you - body and all - to his citadel in The Dreaming. Here in his throne room, you _finally_ take a breath. 

You close your eyes to take a deep inhale, however, your injured ribs have other ideas. They remind you of their existence with the subtlety of an angsty suburban teen in a garage band. When your exhale hitches from your discomfort, Morpheus frowns down at you. 

“Remove your shirt.” He orders. 

“You know, if you weren’t so handsome I’d make you buy me a drink first.” Though you tease him, you obey. 

A snarl emerges between his bared teeth as he turns your body to examine the injury.

“Over millennia, I have created an arsenal of nightmares deemed too terrible to unleash upon any mortal. There are more than enough of them to last the remainder of Johnathan Crane’s miserable life.” The pure venom lacing his words sends a shiver down your spine. 

Since, at the end of the day, humans are still animals, they love to see their vengeance draw blood. Considering this, sending nightmares as a form of revenge might seem... anticlimactic. However, your brief experience with the psychological nightmare torture created by the Scarecrow was horrific enough - you can’t even begin to _imagine_ what the Lord of Dream and Nightmare could conjure. You almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost. 

Morpheus splays his hand over the bruised area and within seconds your ribs are healed. Before you can appropriately appreciate what he’s just done he’s moving onto your wrists and hands. You watch in wonder as the lacerations left from your ties and the blisters on your hands vanish without a trace at his touch. 

“I apologize that I did not think to do this sooner. I was blinded by my selfish, singular goal - to have you here, with me.” His eyes are downcast in shame. He’s focused on your hands in his, his thumbs tracing small circles at the base of your palm. 

Your instinct to tease him, to make some sort of sarcastic comment, is overpowered by your adoration for him. The intensity of your feelings for him is so substantial that when you try to vocalize them, they get stuck in your throat. 

So you step closer to him, resolving to _show_ him instead. 

Your hands are meek at first. You’re cautious as you slide your fingers under the exposed flesh below his clavicles, dipping under the opening of his robe. You’re hesitant as you glide your palms up to his shoulders. 

But you gain some confidence when he allows you to push the garment off of him, letting it slip down his arms and into a pool at your feet. The broad expanse of his chest generates an electric crackling heat that originates in your belly but shifts lower as you take in the firm curves of his deltoids, biceps, pectorals, and abdominal muscles. 

“Touch me.” You exhale, tilting your chin to look into his face. 

Tightening his jaw he cocks his chin to the side in a single shake of the head. When he speaks his voice is a bottomless tormented sound, “I do not trust myself to touch you right now, beloved.” 

When you furrow your brows at him in confusion and a sprinkle of wounded pride he explains, “Today I was reminded of how… fragile mortals are. How fragile _you_ are. The way my body yearns for you right now, it is with a violence that I fear will manifest as soon as I lay my hands on you.” 

“ _Good._ ” 

It’s all you can manage to say because his words, which were meant as a warning, are nothing less than gasoline to the fire inside of you, inflaming your desire, making you feral. Your breathing is labored, your mouth is watering, your pupils are dilated, and your heart is racing. 

You might be the foolish mouse begging the lion to devour her, but you don’t care. 

Doesn’t he know that what he’s promising is exactly what you crave? Doesn’t he realize that after what you’ve been through you need him to make you feel alive? Doesn’t he see that the last thing you want right now is to be treated like you’re delicate or fragile? 

Keeping your eyes tethered to his, you remove the remainder of your clothing, encouraged by the way his lips part and his thyroid cartilage bobs as he swallows. It’s intoxicating knowing that you are capable of eliciting this reaction from him. 

Then you drop your hands to his, unclench his fist one finger at a time, and press it to your breast. The instant his skin comes in contact with yours he sucks in a breath that takes the air out of the room. Crackling with anticipation, you watch the storm behind his eyes grow stronger. 

He’s still hanging onto his damn control, but you can tell it’s threadbare and flimsy as gauze. It would be easy to obliterate. And when you wrap your arms around his neck, press yourself against him, and bring his mouth to yours - that’s exactly what happens. 

Morpheus snaps. 

He submits to his hunger. He’s unrestrained, unyielding, almost monstrous. And it is… magnificent. _He_ is magnificent. 

His mouth is ravenous, ambushing yours as if his life depends on it. When he’s siphoned all the oxygen from your lungs, he leaves you gasping, moving on to sample your jaw, ears, and throat with his lips, tongue, and teeth. Your knees have gone wobbly and you clutch handfuls of his hair for support. 

Your body is a new world and his hands the colonists of an insatiable empire, mercilessly staking claim on one part of you and then moving on to the next. The pressure of his palms is exquisitely oppressive as he seizes your breasts until they throb and then slides them down your sides and over your hips. 

When he reaches around and grabs your ass with a brutal possessiveness, you moan. When he lifts you up, you encase his hips with your thighs. When he pins you against the nearest marble pillars, you arch your back and open yourself up to him. 

There’s no tender words exchanged nor whispered sweet nothings as he drives himself into you. He doesn’t wait for you to adapt to him, he doesn’t ease you into the intrusion. He immediately dives in at a relentless pace. This is especially impressive considering he pulls himself nearly all the way out and thrusts himself into depths you didn’t even know existed each time he moves. 

When the pain of him begins to meld with the pleasure, you lament its loss. Because with every succulent twinge or pinch or ache he inflicts you’re reminded not only are you alive, but this is pain you _choose_. This is pain you _want_. This is pain you _crave_. 

You have given Morpheus permission to do this to your body. Shit, you practically begged him to do it. This pain is under _your_ control. 

“ _Harder_.” You order in a growl that is not only utterly unrecognizable to you, but almost inhuman. 

After a tortured groan tumbles out of his throat Morpheus eagerly submits, pushing into you with so much force that your back slides up the column each time his pelvis meets yours. To compensate for this he firms his grip on your hips to keep you in place. You hope he leaves bruises in the shape of his hands there. 

Digging your nails into his back you let your eyes roll to the back of your head and become your most basic self. A biological animal responding to the simple input and output of your sensory neurons, submerging yourself completely in the sensation building in your lower abdomen and between your thighs. 

The dreamers who may or may not be seeing you right now, they don’t exist. Sadie who may or may not have bled out because of you, she doesn’t exist. The trauma inflicted on you by a deranged escapee of an asylum, it doesn’t exist. 

All that exists is Morpheus and you and this column that is holding you up. All that exists is the euphoric release that vibrates through your entire body. Morpheus follows you into bliss, his body becoming completely tense for a breath before convulsing along with you. 

He graciously supports your limp body with his while you’re both floating back down from the endorphin clouds of orgasm and in increments the world comes back to you. The beads of sweat slithering down your back and cleavage, the cold marble behind your back, the tickle of Dream’s hair at your jaw, and the humidity of his breath on your neck. 

After a moment he presses his forehead to yours and whispers on your lips, “You are my Aphrodite, my Parvati, my Freyja. You are my love, _eratos_. You are my heart. You are mine.” 

And even though the world was trying to creep back in, _this_ is all that exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. 
> 
> You guys know how I am about smut. It usually takes me a week before I get the courage to post it. But I guess winter break me is throwing caution to the wind so hopefully it's not total garbage - or at least hopefully it's entertaining garbage! 
> 
> xx


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’d thought the past forty-eight hours had tested your courage. You’d thought that the hardest things you’d ever have to do were behind you.
> 
> You were so wrong.

Morpheus has a bathroom. And now you’re starting to wonder if he also has a kitchen with a fridge full of delicious dreamy food and an industrial cooking range. Maybe one day you’ll find out. 

But today is _not_ that day because nothing short of a volcanic explosion will get you out of this tub at the moment. 

It’s strange because you’ve never considered yourself a “bath person.” In general, you find that they take too much time that could otherwise be spent sleeping. Though, here nestled into Morpheus in the warm water of his spacious, luxurious black porcelain claw-footed tub, you revise your original opinions of baths: You are now most _definitely_ a “bath person.” 

Following the sexual healing in the throne room, Morpheus swung you up into his arms and carried you up his winding stone staircase. You nestled into him and breathed him in, needing as much of your skin to be touching him as humanly possible. 

The tub was already full and the perfect temperature - such is the magic of The Dreaming - and as gently as if you were an authentic faberge egg, he placed you in the water and slipped in behind you. He positioned himself so your back is to his chest, wrapping his long legs along the outsides of yours. 

It isn’t until he lightly nudges forward so he can wash your back, running a washcloth across your back in an opulent massaging motion, that you find your voice. 

“Morpheus?” 

The water lunges around you when he leans forward to sweep the tendrils of hair off the nape of your neck and presses a kiss right below your ear. 

“ _Hmm?_ ” He purrs, sending shivers down your spine. 

“Tell me about what happened after I left last time. After you asked me to stay with you.” 

From what the police told you when you gave them your statement, you know you were in the warehouse for just under forty eight hours. This is longer than you thought since you were sedated for much of it. 

He folds his forearm over your chest and leans back, taking you with him. When he puts his arms on the edge of the tub, you put yours over his and rest your head against his chest, making him your very own Dreamy recliner. 

“I sent Matthew down after you left… ,” 

Nestled in the water of a magical bath that never grows cold, that never makes your skin pucker or prune, you listen to your favorite sound - Morpheus’ voice - as he tells you what unfolded while you were in the warehouse.

After Matthew reported Ryan being at your apartment, Morpheus abandoned his kingdom and went down to find that you were gone. He interrogated poor Ryan until he realized that the man not only knew nothing of your whereabouts but was not working with Crane. 

Over the next thirty six hours he searched for you, he questioned and threatened criminals in The Bowery and down at the docks. When a ransom letter was delivered to your house, promising your safe return in exchange for… all the power The King of Dreams possesses (you can’t help but guffaw at the sheer audacity of Johnathan Crane), Morpheus ransacked the suggested meeting place and all the surrounding buildings - finding them empty. 

He didn’t limit his search to the earthly plane either. He paid a visit to Desire in their realm: The Threshold. He traveled to The Garden of Forking Ways to beg his oldest brother Destiny for any insight as to where you were. And reluctantly, he sought out his sister Death - terrified that she would deliver the news that you were no longer among the living. 

At long last, it was ultimately Death who discovered Crane’s location. And it is at this point where his timeline converged with yours once again. 

Twining your fingers with his you ask, “What you were when you came to the warehouse for Crane, what was that? What... _were_ you? Was it something you could control? Was it what you warned me about when you said that I’d opened Pandora’s box?” 

When he tugs one of your hands to his mouth, you shift your body so you can look up at him. He runs the pads of your fingers one by one across his lips as he ponders your questions, making your stomach flutter and toes curl. 

After some time, he sighs and shakes his head. 

“The form I arrived at the warehouse in, it was a demonstration of my rage and the utter collapse of my self-control. I was determined to take whatever action necessary to force Crane to reveal your location. Then when I saw you, my fearless Pandora, and when you put your hands on me,” At this he presses your palm to his chest, “Nothing else mattered. Not Crane, nor my helm, nor my duty. Just you.” 

The juvenile flutterings in your belly have made way for the most potent, burning affection you have felt for anyone in your entire life. It’s so formidable that your sinuses start to burn and your eyesight becomes blurry with tears. 

Morpheus continues, “When I warned you about opening the box, I was also warning myself, for I know the implications. There is much at risk for me to feel with such passion. During my quest for you, the dreamers were forced to endure the emotions I felt: anxiety, frustration, and fury.” 

Thinking about his words, you start to chew on your bottom lip. This is what Ms. Lizzie had told you and to an extent it’s what you’d discovered on your own after the first night you’d slept with him. It was a reminder of what it meant to be with him, how your relationship with him affected those he was bound to protect. 

The Dreaming is supposed to be a world in which the human brain can subconsciously work out personal problems, store memories - a place where one can safely push the boundaries of imagination. Ideally it is a world safe from the influence of others, a world that is private and authentic and free. And tragically, everything The Dreaming must be, all of its integrity is compromised when Morpheus is afflicted with strong emotions. 

“This is why I need you here, with me, permanently, _eratos_.” His gaze is focused on your lips where he coaxes your bottom lip out from your teeth with the pad of his thumb before stooping to feather a kiss upon them. “With you here, where I know you are safe, I will be able to better control my emotions.” 

While words don’t shock you, each syllable fills you with a miserable, suffocating heartache, because you can’t help but see the terrible glaring truth. Now you see what it means for you two to be together. 

The first time he asked you knew the obvious sacrifices you’d need to make. You’d have to abandon your life, your family, your job. But now you see the deeper layer. You see that you would have to live in a world you don’t understand and you’d need to become submissive to his will. Not because it is what he desires, but out of necessity for him to carry out his obligations as the Lord of Dream - obligations which will always and forever take precedence over any of your own wishes or ambitions. 

In a way, Morpheus reminds you of the Genie from Aladdin. An all powerful being who has been made a slave by his purpose. And if you choose to stay with him you’d be willingly shackling yourself to the same purpose - his purpose. Though it seems impossible now, you know that overtime you would grow to resent him for asking you to live this life for him, and that resentment would poison your love. 

You’d thought the past forty-eight hours had tested your courage. You’d thought that the hardest things you’d ever have to do were behind you.

You were so wrong. 

The courage you have to muster to look up into Morpheus’ eyes, put your hand on his cheek, and shake your head, it was more courage than you needed to stab Sadie with a corkscrew. The courage it takes to look at the ugly truth - the impossibility of you and Dream - head on, it’s infinitely more than you needed to run across the warehouse floor with gunfire all around you. 

The most courageous thing you have ever done is being honest with yourself in this moment and to tell the person you love more than anyone or anything in this entire world, “I won’t.” 

You’d thought the past forty-eight hours had shown you what pain is. You’d thought that the worst pain you’d ever feel was behind you. 

You were so wrong. 

The hurt that saturates Dream’s lovely features, a hurt that mirrors your own, it’s more painful than when Crane kicked you in the ribs. The way he leans in, with shaky resignation and rubs his cheek against yours to whisper, “I know, _eratos_.” It’s excruciating.

When he pulls away and you see his face is damp not only from your tears but _his_ as well, it feels as if your heart is being mutilated. You can’t breathe, your lungs are on fire and they are ruthlessly scorching everything in the vicinity. 

And when you believe you have reached the absolute threshold of what you can endure, Morpheus kisses your palms, one at a time, and in the most powerless voice you’ve ever heard says, “I only ask one last thing. Stay with me tonight, beloved. Be my dream for one last night.” 

And this is when you know what _true_ pain is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me! 
> 
> I wanted them to be together in the end just as much as the next person, but I couldn't make it happen. I couldn't do it without sacrificing the things I loved most about this MC or compromising the integrity of who Morpheus is as a character. 
> 
> There's just one more chapter after this and then an epilogue but I have some other plans for this MC in Gotham in another fanfic I've been working on. And I understand if you're mad at me for how I ended things, but hopefully by the time I feel ready to start publishing it, you'll forgive me and give it a chance. 
> 
> Love you all <3 <3
> 
> xx
> 
> Evie


	26. Chapter 26

Most of the time, people aren’t granted the luxury of knowing when it’s their last time. 

A mother doesn’t know the last time she’ll carry her child. A child doesn’t know the last time they’ll climb into bed with their parents when their sleep is distrubed by a nightmare. One of the times your grandpa makes a comment to you about the holes in your jeans, it’ll be the last time, and you probably won’t know it while it’s happening. 

These last times are often what haunt those who grieve. They obsess over the last words they spoke to someone or the last time they kissed someone - thinking that if they’d only _known_ it’d be the last time, they’d have done something differently, they’d have paid closer attention, they’d have appreciated it more. 

Considering this, perhaps you should feel privileged that you _know_ this is your last time. Perhaps you should think of these last moments with Morpheus as a gift. Perhaps this closure will eventually help you with your healing process. 

But at the moment you don’t _feel_ privileged, you don’t _feel_ like this is a gift. 

What you _do_ feel is a sadness that is so deep it makes your bones feel dense. There’s a gnawing sensation in your chest as if a rodent has been trapped in your thoracic cavity and is trying to escape. And underlying it all there’s a steady oscillating panic. A panic that you will miss something - that you’ll forget. 

You know the things you’ll never forget: the way his eyes contain the universe and flicker with stars, the timbre of his voice, the blue-black color of his wild hair, and the shape of his lips. But will you be able to remember the angle of his jaw? What about the whorl of his thumbprint? Or the feel of his tongue against yours? 

There are so many questions you haven’t been able to ask him, that you won’t have time to ask him. Questions like: Why do you have a belly button? Were you _born_? If so, who is your mother? Your father? What is the best dream you’ve ever made? What is the best dream you’ve ever seen? What was Shakespeare like? 

You want him to whisper the secrets of the universe to you, to tell you stories for hundreds of years - but you know the price to pay for this is one you aren’t willing to pay. So for now, all you can do is soak it in. Soak _him_ in. 

“Do you know who Robert Smith is?” You brush a tangle of black hair back from Morpheus’ face.

He nods once, his eyes transfixed on you as they have been ever since you’ve moved from the tub to his bed. Though his bed is as soft and comfortable as you imagine a cloud would be if a cloud were capable of supporting a person, you aren’t laying on it. Instead you are sprawled out on top of Morpheus, resting your chin on his sternum and gazing up at him. 

“Your hair reminds me of his.” Then you admit, “After our first night together, I listened to ‘Lovesong’ by _The Cure_ on repeat. Have you heard it?” 

The corners of his mouth tip up. “Perhaps. Will you remind me how it goes?” 

You’re no singer and normally you’d adamantly refuse this request, but since this is the last time you have with him - you indulge him, delivering the lyrics one line at a time in an intimate whisper that is more speaking than singing. 

“Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again.”

 _The way he’s brushing his fingers down your arms and across your back, don’t forget it._

“Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again.” 

_Remember the way he pulls you up to him and presses his forehead to yours, remember how when he sighs how you can feel his breath on your lips._

“Whenever I’m alone with you -,” 

“You make me feel like I am young again.” Morpheus interjects with the second half of the line while pressing his palm to your cheek, combing his fingers into the hair at your temple, holding you close to him. 

Your breath snags as you try to hold in a sob. 

_Don’t you **dare** forget this._

When you continue your voice is shakier than before, “Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am fun again.” 

_Remember this kiss. The light pressure of his lips on mine. Never forget this soft, unassuming kiss, the one that’s salty from our tears._

“However far away…,” Your voice breaks. 

Morpheus pulls back to look at you, taking his hand from your hair and gliding it down to trace your cheekbones, your jawline, your lips - while he finishes the phrase, “I will always love you.” 

“However long I stay…,” you sniff. 

“I will always love you.” 

_Never forget this. Never forget the way the rise and fall of his chest feels underneath you, never forget the thrum of his pulse on his wrist under your fingers._

“Whatever words I say…,” 

“I will always love you.” 

_Always remember this. Never forget it. Always. Never. Please…_

“I will always love you.”  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Though pleasant, the melody that encircles you and crescendos until you have been effectively pulled from your slumber is one that you associate with pain. 

Not from the pain of waking, but the pain of understanding. Understanding that you aren’t and can never be with the one you will always love. Understanding that the time you spent with Morpheus and in The Dreaming is at an end. And understanding that this is just the beginning of a long and exhausting road that will be your attempt at going back to a normal life. 

While you rollover onto your back, you press the side button to silence the alarm and squint into the screen which is lit up with the “Root of the Day.”

> Aetern, -um (Latin). Forever. Always. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a wrap. 
> 
> Real quick. I just want to say as non-obnoxiously as possible how amazing you guys all are. The Sandman fanbase can be intimidating and you all were honestly the best. Constantly encouraging me with your comments on almost every chapter. Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> <3 <3


	27. Epilogue

**Three Months Later**

The tension is rising. You hold your breath and grit your teeth and apply more pressure with your thumbs while shrinking away at the same time. You wish it would just do it already. 

_Pop!_

“Fucking hell!” You exclaim while the bubbles cascade over the emerald rim, drenching your hands, “Am I the only one who thinks opening champagne is stressful?” 

“Probably.” Ryan shrugs, holding his flute out for you to fill, “Most people just do it with a towel over the bottle or into their palm.” 

You frown and fill your own flute once you're done with his, “Well, most people are boring. What’s the fun in that? Is it even a celebration if you’re not scared you’re about to lose an eye to a cork bouncing around faster than the speed of light?” 

Your friend raises an eyebrow at you, but smirks while lifting the glass to his lips. 

“No! Wait!” You wave your arms out in front of him, sloshing some of the bubbly golden liquid on your hands again. “We have to toast first!” 

You hold your glass aloft and clear your throat, “Raise a glass to... your new home. To exposed brick. To _three bedrooms_ \- which is ridiculous, by the way. To vaulted ceilings. And to that fucking dope butcher’s block island.” 

Ryan snorts, “And here I thought we were celebrating my divorce, not writing sonnets about my apartment.”

“But have you _seen_ your apartment?” You sigh and look wistfully around. 

Two weeks ago Ryan finished moving into his modern industrial penthouse across the river in the neighborhood of Burnside and you are... _in love_. Not with him - though during the weeks he stayed with you, you have become very fond of your new friend - but with the original hardwood and the hipster coffee shops on the ground floor. 

No, you aren’t in love with Ryan, but if you weren’t an adult who knew better than to make such sweeping declarations, you may dub him your _best_ friend. Such is the quick bond formed in recovering from and surviving trauma together. 

Without him, you aren’t sure you would’ve survived those first few weeks. 

When you went to testify at Sadie’s trial, he went with you for moral support. Reminding you afterwards, when you had a breakdown from seeing her throat bandaged and unable to speak, that she didn’t deserve your guilt. Ultimately, she was sentenced twenty years for aggravated kidnapping and she was serving the time in a prison upstate. 

It was also Ryan who told you that someone at work had informed him that Crane had developed somniphobia - a fear of sleeping - ever since he’d come back. Apparently the man would pace and hold his eyes open and sing loudly, anything to delay sleep. And when he inevitably fell into a slumber, he’d wake screaming every time. 

In addition to these things, Ryan brought you iced coffee, he ordered your favorite thai food when you were having a hard time, and he bribed you with Oreos to get out of bed and binge watch _Schitt’s Creek_ with him. Plus, when you woke up crying, he would always sit with you until you fell back asleep. 

But it wasn’t once sided. You added matcha to your shopping list since it’s his favorite, you ordered his favorite indian food when he was having a hard time, and you bribed him with ice cream to binge watch _King of the Hill_ with you. And when his lawyer sent over the divorce papers you were the one handing him the pen and pouring him the whiskey. 

Even though you were both slowly bleeding out from the heart, you did the best to prop each other up for the last few months. Maybe it wasn’t healthy but when you were falling apart, he was there and when he was falling apart, you were there. What more could a person want in a friend?

Once you’re finally able to pull your eyes from the Edison light chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, you clear your throat and straighten up, “A toast to being officially divorced!” 

With a nod, Ryan clinks his glass delicately against yours and you both take a gulp of the Moet, the bubbles making your eyes and throat sting. 

After a moment of silence Ryan asks, “How are things at your place?” 

_Lonely. Miserable. Terrifying. I’ve become paranoid and am convinced I’m being followed._

“Fine.” 

Ryan nods. 

“Fezzik misses you.” You add. 

“Have you given any thought about what we talked about the other night?” 

Ryan is referring to a few nights ago when you were playing gin rummy and you’d had a few too many Lime-a-Ritas. After you’d told him that you ‘couldn’t bear to be a sleep specialist,’ after all that had happened, you’d confided in him when you first started med school you’d fantasize about being a neurosurgeon. When he suggested you pursue it, you’d laughed and reminded him how switching from a neurology residency to a neurosurgery residency would be next to impossible. 

To your surprise the stoic and rational Ryan encouraged you. He’d told you that he thought you could pull it off, that he would help you bolster your CV and see if he could help you in finding any connections in the neurosurgery department. 

Most likely it was just a much needed distraction for the both of you, a project you could both dive into and forget the rest of your problems. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t seriously considering it - to the point of falling down a rabbit hole on the subject of switching residencies every night since you talked about it. 

You shrug, “A bit. It’s tempting, but it’s also scary.” 

“Most things worth doing usually are.” You’ve noticed that when Ryan speaks these words of wisdom he never does it with any sort of self-importance or false grandeur. It’s one of your favorite things about him. 

Then without any preamble, he declares, “You and Fezzik should move in with me here. I have three rooms which someone pointed out might just be ridiculous. Why does a bachelor need three rooms?” 

And without even thinking about it or pretending to be overwhelmed by his generosity you said, “You’re right. We’re in. And whoever told you that three rooms for one man is ridiculous is probably a genius.” 

“Probably.” Ryan’s moustache twitches in a grin and he holds up his glass, “To new beginnings.” 

_To trying our best to forget. To trying our best to **not** forget. To faking it until we make it. To showing up and pretending. To being adults._

You clink your glass to his. 

“To new beginnings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it was pointed out to me that I didn't tie up the loose ends of Crane and Sadie. 
> 
> I'd already written their fates into the second fic I'm working on with this MC and because of that accidentally neglected to do it here. Forgive me! I've added them. 
> 
> Also, if the ending seems abrupt, it's a mixture of my planning to have MC work through some of her issues here in the next one, and because, in general, I'm just bad at ending things! 
> 
> xx
> 
> Evie


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick note from yours truly.

Hey y'all! 

After posting four chapters of my planned second part of this series, someone said something in the comments that sparked such a seed of inspiration that, in a whirlwind of caffeine, I scrapped all my plans and made a whole new outline for TWO new additions. 

I've combined what I was thinking of doing originally with a detective noir style Batman/Reader fic I've had shelved for awhile for the second part. And have a completely different MC for this part. Compared to the first part it will be firmly rooted in reality, but will set up the third part which will bring us back to the original MC... and yes, our love, Morpheus.

Anyway, thank you all for coming to my manic TEDTalk, and huge thank you to @Mermiilik for inspiring me to try and write a conclusion that we all deserve.

Happy New Year! Cross your fingers that 2021 isn't as big as a dumpster fire as 2020 has been. 

xx

Evie


End file.
